These Cells Are Passages

The object is to walk faster than the moth can fly.
Bigger games are abandoned as little ones push
past—puzzle pieces, small fragments, little truths
to make chaos seem organized, meaningful. Even numbers

are more comfortable than odd. Soft sounds are gentler
than harsh ones—static in my ear, sharp esses stinging.

"Shut up," I guess, is your favorite phrase. I suppose
the trick is to keep on walking. I don't look behind me.

A moth gets stuck between the screen and the pane. Don't
watch as the moth escapes, the shape of a bird in the
background. The object is to not sense its longing,

or even imagine it. The object is to not identify with the moth—
a small fragment trapped between safety and fear.