When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks
through the kitchen, tips between her teeth,
and scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed.
If we find these blow-ins theyre usually dead
though a number dust the floor with tatty wings
or unfurl from sheets like pencil shavings,
furry woodcuts, a lime-green surprise
still tremulous, and slight enough to fly.
We hold our fluttery palms to the window,
weigh each ones chances and let go
though tonight you pinch up slivers of moonlight,
and creatures whirr from room to room
like sooty sparks, or tightly sprung toys
glancing our low-lit angle poise.
We lie in almost solid heat;
these hours you turn with fists and feet
and cup my hand against your side to feel
the shape, the quiver of a beating heel.
