Moth Hour by Adrienne Rich
I filched a book of Adrienne Rich’s poetry from my sister’s bookcase in NJ, so here’s a selection. I think this one goes along with the resurgence of my space obsession, as it alludes to how small we really are.
Moth Hour
By Adrienne Rich
Space mildews at our touch.
The leaves of the poplar, slowly moving—
aren’t they moth-white, there in the moonbeams?
A million insects die every twilight,
no one even finds their corpses.
Death, slowly moving among the bleached clouds,
knows us better than we know ourselves.
I am gliding backward away from those who knew me
as the moon grows thinner and finally shuts its lantern.
I can be replaced a thousand times,
a box containing death.
When you put out your hand to touch me
you are already reaching toward an empty space.
