Death Wings

Sometimes when a moth dies,

its wigged legs cling like tiny

stalactites, and it stays frozen

in place until the evening wind

chips ashes from its stiff wings,

or a passing child with curious fingers

brushes it from a brick’s warts

until it falls like a fish hook.

So the moon sits, its thin skin

changeless under the pale light,

folded and settled, and we wonder

if it will fly away.