I am fond of them, love the way they flock
to the light by the porch, any lantern left
on the patio, the one window which looks
like an orange stamp in the corner of any
dark envelope of a house. Their circling
is insistent; is trance, is lyric in search
of reassuring refrain. Moss darkens
the backs of trees, so even in daytime,
they look like they are signalling some
marbled meaning from underneath
the earth. We should be so lucky to be
streaked by their dust—a windfall, when
otherwise the world is over-careful.
Not touching. Not coming too close.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
