Moth
A shame you can’t see my wings
origami creased beneath blades,
tempered in sleep and nerve.
I moved along the floor once,
a better substitute—.
Now, a hot white orb,
my only pull to death.
Dusty with travel, at this momentary stop,
I see past speckles of pollen
into the flower of things.
I am flexible and flickable, buoyant,
pulpable. These are my only truths.
And the golden rail down my back
like a wick of fire.
I know when to take flight,
when to unfurl into wind,
crackling only in traces.
I’ve been taught patience.
Echoes of history
in my segments.
When I lift toward the balloons of trees,
I am the painter’s stroke,
the high note of light.