Woven threads of wool drapes
mirror tapestry of moth wing.
With a tug, drapes open,
then close, like ribbed wings,
neither transparent nor opaque.

Candle stub rests on the dresser;
moon fills the clerestory;
the same breath that lit
the wick, extinguishes it.

In morning hush, floor
meets baseboard,
where a moth
is cornered,
beached like a Gulliver,
his wings limp,
and moth-eaten ,
as an antique lace fan:

A frenzy of ants
magnifies his stillness.

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