From Things We Don’t Know We Don’t Know. Backwaters Press, 2006.

Every morning you’d think
all the moths would throw themselves into the Sun.

But they wait
for streetlights
to consume them

in small coughs
of sparkle,
my dear,

my dear,
my dear;
I have stopped

listening to my moth soul.
My dear, I am done
tilting at streetlights.

My paper wings soar,
brush
your blazing heart.

Poem copyright Matt Mason, used here with permission.

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