Alas Poor Moth

By Peter Halstead

Alas, poor moth, who just today
Is laid out on the ground,
That only last night used to fly
Against my arms and face,
How much I can hardly say,
Ending high up on the wall,
Beyond all human touch:
Where be your sorties now,
Your flaps, which once were used to soar
At such a flash of speed
Against the attic trap,
Ending now upon this mortal floor—
The gambols of the night, the clever stall,
Come at last to bare collapse,
As will we all.

August 31st, 2022