June 30

This is no paint fleck peeling in the heat.
It is the scalene wing of a moth

adhering to the wall,
and if I love anything at all

it is this sort of thing:
soft subversives, surrealities,

the dozen moths
like unblinking lids

that I see now
where I couldn’t, before.

As if I would begrudge
a lack of luster!

I know too well,
this friable nature,

how a sharp wind
can lift away

its dusty armor,
or a too-clumsy hand.

If I was cruel once
it was also without guile–

surprise me, love
surprise me now

and I will never leave
again.

OPTIONAL POETRY