Moths

This is the night the moths wake up

and flutter stunned around the porch light trembling with silence

only there is no silence, only

a grasping of the riddle

of another night

this is one of those dark nights

when they crawl out of their hiding places and sizzle as they fall

burned from a hot lightbulb

blown out of a charred world

and somehow their wings, like dead flakes of skin

have carried them to this blacked-out disembodied question

where shall we fly to? What sweetness will we find?

from their dark past they follow their desires

it's so silent, our ever-faster journey

through all the seasons

what darkness and what light?