a response to Elizabeth Bishop's poem, "The Man-moth"

Down below,
the Moth-man stares at his reflection
in a glassy window, sees himself flit
up and down like the head of a classroom sleeper.

Buildings sleep in this city, leviathans of the deep
that crawled on land before falling, their bodies
shoulder-to-shoulder and perfectly upright.
Among their feet a conversation loops
You’d never guess,
you’d never guess,
you’d never guess*
through the insect’s antennae.

It doesn’t matter, but he picked it up like
a lost button and turned it over and over
until he memorized how the moon slides
around the circle in slick patterns—

Secretly he wants to know what else the lady said
before she clipped down the sidewalk.

And some may sit in the dark with wide penny eyes,
river water filling the rim until it bubbles over,
but he waits for day. Because,
why orbit a lamppost when the whole world
is on fire?

In my backyard, the deep sauce
of sun-gold air swivels lazily,
stirred by the occasional bumblebee.
I’m entertained by the idea of anything beyond this.
No continents, no glitter-splashed ocean.
The softened world settles into itself,
transforming from its usual busyness.
Squash lounges in the garden and
preschool train operators maneuver Thomas
through his wooden kingdom.
They move trees and buildings around their set and we,
still fascinated with the cucumber in the garden,
don’t look up from skimming our fingers through grass,
changing our own soil kingdoms with the sweep of a hand.