The Golden Moth

Ten years after he died,
his body moved like night
through the city. Every star
a splinter in his eye, the moon
his skull, the pine his arms.

What has given back his flesh,
his hair and bones, two stems
of wing to wander from a grave
cut dark into my soul like meteors
or ocean's deepest undertow?

To lovers after they fall prey,
a piece of you will follow what
you've loved and touched as surely
as the worm encased in hoary webs
will rise a golden moth.