Mothlight

Heaven is sweating outside. 
The moth on the glass door beats his wings, 

which are whiter than moonlight when the moon 
is full and white. 

It’s the lamp inside he wants, 
the dull yellow blaze of the imitation flame. 

Who can blame him? 
Who wouldn’t lose the moon with the dull yellow 

blaze so close it can almost be tasted? 
That kind of hunger tastes good.

Reviews

[jacob erin-cilberto]

so Dickinson this one is...

reminds me of her poem..."wild nights"

i really like your phrasing...and how you have such a sharp ending to this.

jacob

[Emily B]

perfection in a poem

wow