Three times I put my foot down
on a moth which dropped from
lamp, to desk, to floor.
The first bootthump warns of death.
Backed by density of rug, the moth
sets her wings for flight, but
never moves. My final blow
is a roof collapsing. The moth sits
poised, perfect and serene in death.
I lift her carefully, examine
feathery antennae, compound eye,
gray-thread legs decorously crossed.
Plain cousin of Monarchs, destroyer
of wools, emblem of futility, you
too require earth, air, water, fire
for your life; you fly away or hide
from enemies; you do not fight. You
leave a dark gray shadow on my rug. her spirit is wombed
awaiting new birth -- in a
land i can't locate