Bright Moth, How Large
the World is this Morning

Imprisoned in surprising
rectangular spaces all night,
a slick vertical clinging,
you did the only thing
you knew to do. Wait in the thin
space behind a dark painting.

In the morning,
French doors were
bleared light. They opened
mysteriously, as did
a memory inside you.

The memory drunkenly
curved toward more light.
You drew a flickery line
through an open window.

How quickly one
is liberated matching
light to light.


One Response to “Bright Moth, How Large
the World is this Morning”

  1. Uche Ogbuji says:

    I love that title! It really works to have the phototropic impulse described as a memory. And I like that little glimpse of Goethe again, at the birth of day that repudiates the end of life: “more light!”

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