Moth at My Door

Knocks twice. The first,
to announce arrival,

the second, to listen
for an answer.

Passage involves
waiting in the shadows

until the light inside
comes looking;

you cannot
drag it out

with weeping
or the knowledge

of your years-

the sweetest child
has died in darkness

thinking how
to bend its ear.

And so we try

a language
like a question,

body like
a secret wing,

a fire built
by lovers

who rush
into the flame.

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