Moths At The Window

Some random shape against the light,
Edges lit with odd electricity; this wild
Creature desire and pique and you and I
Have something in common. Evening comes

Then drops into night like red peaches to the ground.
Do we grow old or just set in our ways? The cat is lulled
By the sound of these keys clacking hard and
Uncertain against false paper.

And I think how all Old Good Times sit
Firm and unblinking as pharaohs on a yesterday
Throne. A pink bulb throws light and heresy
On a photograph of me, younger and with short hair

Smiling as if to eat the world. To know you
Ten years is to know you ten minutes
Or less, and words garner silence. Let’s
Pick today like a fruit that cannot wait. Fear

Will visit and perch stern in the hall.
Friends will serve themselves up on a plate.
Personally I cannot grieve or wait
Another day to see what walks toward me, or away.

Love is still the hardest claim to stake, as if to say so would
void freedom, blithe, would cut nonchalance with the bluntest knife.
But when we laugh we touch gingerly on life
And beat against hard glass, winged.