I struggle to define place
how cutworms creep from farmlands
break soil as small threads
the likeness of which is not knitting
not tearing and then refurbishing
a part of body to newness—
they pull themselves
this dampness of creation.

Miller moths spread, not Luna, not white nor feathered
but small, powdered wings floating
small bodies pliable and drawn to light
refuse clustered, sequestered
into corners, migrating from plains
to mountainsides, a nocturnal nursing
of wildflower nectar. The materials that bare them bear them whole.
It would be symbolic to say this moth transforms—
physical form so different
from physical meaning.