From On Becoming Light”:
And there it was, the moth;
a child’s hand wrestling itself in the grass.
Delirious, it fumbled its way out from the dark umbrella
of a tree, then landed on the stoop.
A frayed rope of light swung from the porch.
The moon was gorged on the dewy foment of summer.
I set my hand near, and it fluttered into my palm:
its weight no more than breath, its wings,
laments hammered into sheets of dust.