a Journal of Poetry and the Arts
A winged sunset flutters, drawn
toward the lamp behind me.
Addled by errant desire
it bumps my knee,
leaves a smudge of moonlight.
Recovering, the moth drunkenly swoons toward the glow
heavy-winged and awkward,
a novice angel.
Now stained glass before the light
it feather-drums the lampshade,
delirious with longing.