so this moth sits on the back of my hand, examining my substance
and the circumference of all things
human, and with or without comprehension
of this odd shaped man-contraption, will drop dead
living a single day
weeds grow in the fields below cool shades of sky
and worms play with ideas of immortality
(mortally wounded flies dangle from spider webs
like spider snacks in spider traps in a way that only dead flies can)
the mortally wounded chevy nova sits flat against the gravity
of dirt road, uncertain of motion
suspended in summer
wandering in thought
becky and mick are in the backseat talking, i am in the front
stevie ray plays little wing on some distant frequency
she lights another cigarette just as he crushes one out
then opens her mind and lets confusion flutter
how come the ocean is blue but rain is gray? how come
violets are blue and not violet? why can’t violets bloom
in the winter, in long cold gray of december
when i need them the most?
if the eye in the sky sees everything, can it see itself?
is everything watching of everything? when dogs dream
do sleeping cats awaken screaming with nightmares?
does a tow-truck still exist, if it never shows up?
we consider this
and suddenly hear the sound of one hand clapping
as i slap another bug crawling across the dashboard
(it all comes back to me, the primordial memories
like buzzing swarms of bees, or bees that swarm buzzingly
swarming memories of primordial buzzing that comes back to me
like a symphony of bees)
it all comes back to this moth, dusty paper god
of lost causes, who lives a single day, and spends it
banging against the windshield
