A moth2 lies open and lies
like an old bleached3 beech4 leaf,
a lean-to between window frame and sill.
Its death protects a collection of tinier deaths
and other dirts beneath.
Although the white paint is water-stained,
on it death is dirt, and hapless.
The just-severed tiger lily
is drinking its glass of water, I hope.
This hope is sere5.
This hope is severe.
What you ruin ruins you, too
and so you hope for favor.
I mean I do.
The underside of a ladybug
wanders the window. I wander
the continent, my under-carriage not as evident,
so go more perilously7, it seems to me.
But I am only me; to you it seems clear
I mean to disappear, and am mean
and project on you my fear.
If I were a bug6, I hope I wouldn't be
this giant winged thing, spindly like a crane fly,
skinny-legged like me, kissing the cold ceiling,
fumbling for the face of the other, seeking.
It came in with me last night when I turned on the light.
I lay awake, afraid it would touch my face.
It wants out. I want out, too.
I thought you a way through.
Arms wide for wings,
your suffering mine, twinned.
Screen. Your unbelief drives me in,
doubt for dirt, white sheet for sill --
You don't stay other enough or still
enough to be likened to.