Look, a mistake —
a moth, caught
between window
and screen.
Another mistake:
from the bedroom,
faintly, a whisper
that might be sobbing.
There’s another mistake, and another;
in fact there may be evidence of
many others; but sitting here, I
don’t see much of that.
Soon enough that moth’s
going to die trapped
because I will not care
to raise the window to save it.
And whoever’s in the bedroom
crying? Screw her. If you know her,
you come correct her. Bring
me a snack while you’re at it.
Dark Matter 
March 17th, 2013 at 4:34 pm
Pablo Neruda once said that he hated putting himself into poetry, or his emotions; he’d rather create a scene or a sensory impression with words, that made his readers feel what he was feeling when he captured the sense impression.
Based in that philosophy, this poem is deeply shocking. I feel compassion for the sobbing, for the trapped moth, and then… You punch me hard in the empathy and knock the tongue from my mouth.
March 17th, 2013 at 4:36 pm
My work is done here, then. (Thanks.)
March 17th, 2013 at 4:44 pm
Hey, happy to help. But this poem strikes me as a ludus serius— a serious game. It’s just words, and yet, it speaks of a reality that is generally and genuinely untouched by the broad river of social justice themes that support a lot of the modern-day poetry scene as I’ve seen it. It’s investing unconscious, naked selfishness with lurid, lyric power, and declaring “this too is a legitimate voice,” and daring someone, anyone, to respond … And then refusing to listen…
Have you ever performed it live?
March 17th, 2013 at 4:47 pm
Not yet. New stuff. Perhaps tonight.