June 12, 2020

Luna Moth

I'm reaching here, for what
         I don't quite know.
         I can only guess.
But the stretch feels good,
enlivens my limbs, occasions
the piercing of general oblivion
by silent yelps of beauty: the
heart-of-the-earth, flowering in
the field like a fat lavender; the
luna moth, paling to white with
expiration at the end of his given
season, his lower wing spots like
the eyes of eternity peering in
         on time, inviting
         a reciprocal gesture.