If Moths Had Teeth

A dark night has its own voice;
every moth, a small prayer, 
a cathedral of teeth in 
a mouth of flame.  

Quietly, the universe twists 
and hangs each impassioned word
in star-filled rings, releasing them
wing-like, unfurled and springs 

to a place, a spot, a predicted
geography, a uniquely fashioned
particle of being.  Below, a grey
moth clings to summer's last bloom

feathered ears trembling, brown
coat torn and tired.  Finally falling
she recognizes the burning unfulfilled
desire for light was nothing more

than dream and passage.

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