All morning, as I sit thinking of you,
the Monarchs are passing.
Yet the moth has trim, and feistiness, and not a drop
of self-pity.
The twenty-winged cloud of yellow butterflies
floats into the field.
The irregular postage stamp of death;
a black moth the size of my left
thumbnail is all I’ve trapped in the damask.
Certainly, we all felt
this vastly hollowed-out distress.