Not quite awake, I prepare
morning coffee. Two wires
stick out from the basket
holding a dark roast.
I pull…a moth,
just a slight struggle
in my fingertips,
then wriggles to the floor.
An ordinary clothes moth
so much like the bark
of a silver maple
with a touch of gossamer.
I’ve heard moths get zoned out
by candle flames, or catch
in lace curtains.
How did she get inside?
Must have been seduced
by Mr. Coffee, the warmth,
the heavy scent—
dark Sumatra.
