In my backwood rot
one thousand moths:
owl, browntail, rosy maple,
aortic, earworm, antler.
Negligees in the morning
look like windshield-stricken
insects or dead fairies
when your brakelights fly
off trees out here. In me rot
the opposites of blue and
luminous, a mostly white poem
about a bedspread. The words
I chose I found in the treenware
bowl by the river where the moths
molt wings. That’s where we do it,
splay hands bird-wide and swap
a deer-spot for a flower that can
fly. Our first time, the words
I found were meat color impact,
but it came out a wax moth
and died when I touched it.
Fawns grow up by dropping
dapples in the boscage. Pelts
go to pot in your mouth. A kiss
is death made flesh from you.
Even now, an unmade wing
follows home your car.