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The Moth
There is a moth fluttering in the toilet bowl,
agitating the sullied water.
The moth is doing some sort of death dance,
flickering wet wings signal for lady luck to fly in.
In another room, she scratches herself six times in lines not parallel,
but lines not yet meeting.
A geometry teacher asks me to imagine the lines
in invisible planes;
Imagine that they go on redly forward, until they eventually meet:
This is why they are not parallel.
A moth and a train fly toward one another, full speed ahead.
At what time do they meet?
But the moth never arrives; it is occupied.
Busy with wings like wet silk, falling through water.
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