A Moth to a Prism

Long-wavering light tilts in from the east,

wobbly, and shy, but bolstered by shorter tempers.

At full strength, through straightforward panes,

it ceases to be — but tilt with it,

tip toward it, cut clever corners, bend,

and it will sing sweet notes in every language.

The hollow dark feels endless. It is not.

Bear the hymns that twist down ancient tunnels,

the elegies caught in bitter, haunted stone.

In the morning, catch the sun in your hands:

let it flutter, flustered, coy, in the cup of your palms.

Through straightforward panes, it ceases to be — but tilt with it,

tip toward it, and it will sing:

with tremulous tone, in tittering verse,

it will divulge everything.

Bend with the light, and it will open wide.

Tilt with it, tip toward it, and it will tease apart the frequencies —

a reminder: We are here

even when you can’t see us.

Even when you don’t believe.