stuck on molecules, I crack
the spine of a newborn
book. It’s quiet now,
moths pinging soft
off lamps, discarded tissues.
The body of the moth is shorter and stouter
than that of the butterfly.
Some moths cannot eat, for they have no mouths.
Once, while I slept, two moths took shelter in my dress,
left hanging overnight to dry.
in the morning I’ll pick wings out of the carpet
and think of you
the box of your jaw, how you cocked your hip
in the teacher’s lounge, your mouth parts
painted scarlet, the downy fold of
eyebrows like apostrophes