Luna Moth

Pale green and pressed against the window screen,

shot through with field, you watch nighttime's corners

curl with four white eyes, your under-self unfurled

to my one room of word—kettle, counter,

knife block. Having lived one of your life's

six nights, you leave a limp silhouette where you

left off—let me be the creature circling

your sleep. I am the most benign unknown;

I do not touch. With what nights are left, plant

your wing beat in my sleep, be the only

hovering thing. If only you could teach me

survival without sustenance, unworried

love, how to find oneself at a window

one morning and think nothing of what happens next.