“You’re reading pages aged to the color of my wings…
…moonlight behind wispy, cirrus clouds…”
Says the Moth
You’re reading pages aged to the color
of my wings, mottled mocha in dark edges
and a white chocolate center shifting
like moonlight behind wispy, cirrus clouds.
My bristled legs prick against this bone-
smooth window. Scrawling like a 5-o-clock
shadow dry across cold nipples. Scratching
and scratching. A man in your dreams.
Page by page your fingers slide over the spine,
wedging your narrow thoughts between each
vertebra. Dragging your long finger down the paper’s
crease. It flaps and folds like skin.