Summer 1993 • Vol. XV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1993 |

Moths

I like the leaf ones best, For whom the ends of transformation Are resemblance To another life entirely--- The wings almost deciduous, Antennae fusty as fronds. As the one I saw last night Fastened upon the screen Seemed to have been blown there By the wind, another scrap Stuck fast from the hickories. Even its patterns were patient Arrangements of the dust: Flocked, dry pigments On which the night air fell. It was still there in the morning, Holding itself motionless Into the world of forms. In school we learned how molt Follows molt into the magnitudes--- Successions of instars Like stations of the cross. How the moth is a mausoleum Or cobwebbed vault. That summer I broke my collarbone The stiff cast held my shape Even when they'd removed it, Another unhasped casing Left to its tree. Even then change was a rending. Even the saints, we learned, Had first to shed the chrysalis Which blocked their sight, Feeling themselves bleed outwards Into their wings Before rising from the da

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After

By Robert Gibb

I like the leaf ones best, For whom the ends of transformation Are resemblance To another life entirely--- The wings almost deciduous, Antennae fusty as fronds. As the one I […]

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