They Lift Their Wings to Cry
LOOKING UP PAST MIDNIGHT INTO
THE SPIN OF THE CATALPA BLOSSOMS
I came home drunk without my key
and lay down in the yard to think.
Inside my skull on damp grass thoughts
spun inward. Whorls of a magnetic field
exfoliated under the solar wind,
so that the Northern Lights above me
trembled. No: that was the porch light
blurred by tears. Moths slammed
head first into the light bulb. Maybe
they needed bigger brains. Me too.
I closed my blurry eyes, and springs
flowed underwater in my sleep.