luam cleaning house

—umbertide

Moths, moths,

this is our

shelter, what

one of our kind

made for another

of our kind.

That Last Light you saw

was not a moon

but an invention

to keep me safe

from stumbling

up the walk,

or to help me to see

what it is

at the door.

In the morning

your bodies, shavings

of flight, here & there,

having surrendered.

You were always dying

in my sleep.

& I, your last

neighbor.

Before I take the brown broom

gently to your body,

I see your once-was.

With care, I study your eyes.

It is my job.