The bodies of moths
litter the windowsill like
the empty wrappers of bubblegum
empty minds
empty wings
they crackle in the sun pouring in through the dusty cracked
window; dust motes lazily circle on some current of air
undetectable
The bodies of moths
are so dry; parched, I am afraid that if I touch them
all the moisture will be sucked out of me
until I am merely a husk,
a shell,
something that remains after the life has
flown away
I sweep up the moths
ashamed in a way;
They lie there silent
on the sun-dried windowsill;
what right do I have to disturb the dead
in their peaceful slumber?