by T. Clear
Lost, to a single point of electric light,
you surrendered to a false moon
in ever-diminishing circles,
spiraled to an end on a sidewalk
outside the Hummingbird Saloon.
And then trampled by someone’s urgency
for Doritos. No dirge
to attend the last sputtering dust
from your two pairs of wings.
Not a bee or fly to hover vigil.
Never to know the straight line,
the perfect angle by which to navigate
along the horizon by moonlight,
by gene-encoded directionals
spun through egg, larva, pupa
for 190 million years. To end here,
swept aside in a twirl of wind,
more weightless than ever
minus your own spark of desire.
O my nocturnal, my less-than-lovely,
my little lepidopteron, where
will you not go now?
Painting by Jesse Waugh