there is a
black moth on the ceiling
it hangs
between mottled-orange water stains
the room lit
in dull yellow decaying light
is strafed by
traffic headlights that stutter through broken blinds
an unshaven
man disheveled stands under it looking up at it
he smokes a
cigarette
the smoke is
disrupted by night air bleeding through the windows
emerging from
hiding in a dark corner the moths mate flutters to it
she lands
beside him
lays her
wing over his back
she is larger
the smoking
man eases the dead into death
he takes what
they need him to and makes those confesses to their families
not all the
dead need him
the black
moths are motionless in their embrace
he does not
disturb them
he understands
comfort even if he cannot find his own
because they are
alive he cannot hear them
the dead birds
on the street speak to him
why did you
live in the city he asks
they had wings
they could fly
anywhere
if he had
wings he would fly away
he would
forsake his family and the dead in the city if he had wings
the dead birds
said you have legs
the black
moths remained motionless
they would not
be there in the morning
they did not
talk to him
only the
unhappy dead talked to him
2121,
Day-Between-Two-T’s, 20 7. 11
