Beware of greatness, my soul.
—Cavafy
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