one by one the moths
find their way into the building,
lose themselves in high corners
and dingy stairwells
cupping my hands I
usher what few I can off
the fire escape, blowing them
to whatever dusty fate is theirs
but more often find stilled
wings, unmoving corpses along
the baseboards beneath
the hallway lights
I think they know there’s
no moon here, but flock
to false incandescence for scant
safety in a poor substitute
but how else
does one escape the spiders?
© Sarah Whiteley
ebbtide 