I offer you a small peeled orange and say
This is the earth.
The Irish moss, quiet
As a caterpillar, tempts
You to dig your feet into its wool
And loose its scent
Our naked limbs in the sun, we
Impress ourselves into each other,
Bear the unbearable light.
Here, before the dark, cold of the room
Where the man who has your face dies,
The sole witness a single moth,
(A strange and barely blue one) seals itself to the window
Where it writes– We can’t help who