2 August 2014

Saturday Poem


The biggest (native) moth in North America lives for
two weeks. I’ve seen one spend one of its mornings
against a brick wall, preternaturally alive, folding mass
into the same amount of mass, collating. Its wings,
as you might expect, have eyes. It has no digestive
system, as such, no mouth; it thrives on its own stuff, as
acorns do. Consider, if you will, and please, you have
to, that night, clouded. The moth uses the moon, so
some contend. Everything’s dateless, but everything’s
Virginia, that is, original. A Great Horned Owl
intercepts the Cecropia Moth. These are my terms, and
these are my names.

-- Chris Hunt Griggs

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