empty moth cases line my storage closet
and this one's still trying to live after
I've smacked it three times.
when I was in Virginia I would panic as I imagined
the moths chewing tiny holes in my work
I'm here now with a thin glaze of sweat between my back
and these sheets
used to be on my parent's bed (before death before tumor before coming
clean
about his homosexuality before hate before divorce before)
I still adore the bizarre pattern that adorns them
like a bloated H and the possibility that I could've been conceived
on these sheets
swatting at the fucking moths I've come home sad
they'll eat holes in my apartment while I sit
talking with you
and when we hear gunfire we just look at each other
when I used to hear gunfire I'd think about if it came
somehow into my apartment, whizzing
and ricocheting off the walls like inside a pinball cell game
and then it would hit something at exactly the right angle to shoot
back
out through the way it came.