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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.

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