FLIGHT LESSONS

A white moth

mottled like the August moon

beats its wings against the pane, fluttering

like some newfangled flying machine

All the fuss smudges the glass with

wing-dust, and scatters debris like

the time the white Piper Cub smashed

like a toy plane up in Dick Hollow

I’ve seen it before–

the flurry around the lantern’s light when

I’m reading late at night in the summer,

One final dance around the globe, I think

I’ve seen it before–

the white descent into nothingness when

Elyse & Beth Ann were blown to bits

over Lockerbie, their ashes sown

across the heathered hillocks

White moth

silent like the moon

can’t you simply live like

the katydids that sit among

the leaves and branches and

chant their nightly mantras?

Or does the flight toward illumination

always end in destruction?