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.