You cling to my finger like a newborn.
The same weight that clogged your engines and dragged
you down to drown now buckles
you tight to the safety raft.
The irony is not lost on me.
I slide you off onto the windowsill, the sun
crashes in like the lord and saviour through stained-glass
and you rest there, antennas crooked either side
like a funny old flattened toupee in the street.
What light guided you to my glass, Moth?
The bathroom window open but a crack,
it is almost unimaginable
how far you journeyed, working
tirelessly your tiny wings
as if determined to find death
in a macrocosm of blooming refuge.
I smile and shake my head at you,
give you one last
over my shoulder
as I use the mirror
to tie my mask over
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