Butterfly that has been erased,
its very name a blown-out flame.
Tiny ashen planets inhabiting porches,
doorways, halls, the grounds where
we embark and return. While
other beings sleep, the moths fly.
Pale thing that floats and clings
to lamps, flight shortened, tethered.
To the moth, a light bulb is a moon,
When you next reenter your home
in the evening, moths clustered round
the light bulb like a living chandelier,
tell me that the glow rushing over
your porch isn’t lunar. That the white
bulb affixed above your door is not
a personal moon, this version bright,
just smaller, smoother than the other.