And moths are souls circling the light

Tell me again, how does it work— this so called life
that tries to find and break us every chance it gets?

Deep in the night, the sounds of things attempting
passage: foghorn over water, trains hurtling

over tracks; high beams of light surveilling. I pray
for safety of whoever needs to cross over to another

side; for sanctuary from prowling animals, men
with billy sticks and firearms. I don’t want

the cloudy beating of moth wings ringing every
lamppost to mean more souls have died without finding

relief from their exhaustion, without finding a way
home. Let a child’s slipper be returned to its pair,

an infant to its mother. The night, the night
is a beast with so many beasts inside it.

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