The last poem flutters like a moth perverse
Enough to eschew the light, the moon,
The scholar’s candle, the camper’s lantern.
It’s so far now, so far away from us, without
Any migration, any adaptation to the weather,
Any self-conceived plan. The world that matters,
The world of what people do to one another,
Never has existed for moths, but strange the last poem
Flutters between what matters or does not, and is soft.
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