the pale moths
silver and egg-shell blue
fall lilac
across the dusty
wooden floors
in the abandoned buildings
lining
7th avenue

they all fall
every night
just before
the scattered pages
that drift across
the room
like sail boats
in summer
on the waves
of the spring breeze

their eyes
the ones that long for the sun
but are open
at the wrong hour
always see
the black swirls
that run into each other

just before
their wings
stop to fly

and their souls
scream
in the heart of the crickets
hiding in the lawn
ignited by the fireflies

they just want to know
what those letters mean