When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks
Through the kitchen, tips between her teeth,
And scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed.
If we find these blow-ins they’re usually dead
Though a number dust the floor with tatty wings
Or unfurl from sheets like pencil shavings,
Furry woodcuts, a lime-green surprise –
Still tremulous, and slight enough to fly.
We hold our fluttery palms to the window,
Weigh each one’s chances and let go –
Though tonight you pinch up slivers of moonlight,
And creatures whirr from room to room
Like sooty sparks, or tightly sprung toys
Glancing our low-lit angle poise.
We lie in almost solid heat;
These hours you turn with fists and feet
And cup my hand against your side to feel
The shape, the quiver of a beating heel.