White butterfly —
no, moth, being a night creature —
on the other side of the glass.
I gaze, rapt,
at the snow-white body and legs,
the white wings outlined
by a stripe of black
following the curving shapes
just in from the edge.
Tonight again
it’s on the outside looking in
while I look back, and see
two rounded chunks
gone from the wings on one side
— torn or bitten out?
I slide open the door.
It flutters efficiently into the night
as if nothing was missing.
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