To the right of my bathroom mirror,
quiet as a painting, a moth.
Moths are misunderstood.
To the left of my bathroom mirror,
raised as a gavel, a switch.
Moths are martyrs for light.
A well-nested reflex in my arm,
a thought about clothes, a towel.
To the right of a moth,
wide as morning, a window.
Under a failed parachute, a moth
flaps one wing, pushes with half legs.
In the eyes my bathroom mirror,
guilty as truth, a thief.
He won’t last the day.
God, please forgive
me of my waste.
No comments:
Post a Comment