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THE MOTH

I watch him stop to save a moth
from the mower. Delicate, dusty,
it flutters in his hand the way
I remember his eyelids did
in fevered sleep.

The moth flickers away.
He turns to the mower, lifts the handles
and misses the swallow
diving for what he saved. He doesn't see
the bitter yellow edge, one wing exposed.
Now the light turns dusty.
I can barely see how
the blades turn, how he lifts
the mower into the garage
and stares from the darkness.

      — Gary Kuhlman