All evening the moth has flown into and through the light
each wing, half a heart, flying across the room
and you with your new love, and I with my lost loves
have an aubade to write, before the sun seeks us out
with its big appetite, its hundred hungry arms.
Yes, we have only this night,
the red wine, the crumbs on the table,
the dog half smiling in her sleep
this sweet urgency, this darkening
that holds onto its darkness
that holds on to each of us
like last night, at the ferry landing, when a swarm of gulls appeared
and I thought they were stars breaking against the sky.