Motheaten Poem

Beware of greatness, my soul.


As the burnt catalpa tree, or as the gossamer which trails
behind, unraveling: moths in their hunger
flutter  Swaddled in netting, we sleep
outside together   What stirs
and quiets like a moth quivering
on a sleeve, call it desire  What concedes
to something wild, unjust, rebuke  The catalpa groans
all month  Moths alight with mouths
of thread  In the finger’s breadth
between us, dusk where cloth had been
Where cloth was, dusk