COCOON

I am thinking about the moths, I must confess. When we traced 
the holes in plush cashmere, I thought of gold pests. 

When you went out for coffee or work or life, I shun a yellow light 
against your ceiling, looking for intrusion. I am your intrusion. I push

against old pattern, I weave in and make myself at home 
in your home. You love me, I do something critical and complicated 
for your ecosystem. 

Besides, aren’t the holes better for breathing, touching? 

Your collarbone against my mouth, my hole. You are so whole. 
I want to bite into that bigness. I want to feed, 

me someone never hungry, 

now ravenous, 
now cocooning, growing, multiplying. 

What’s my damage? I want your leg, that quarter, 
against my quarter. I want to do bad math. Here is my center. 

You are my target. I’m going to rest my head full of fluttering 
nightmares on the plexus of your chest. It’s not exactly 

as I think it is:

the world, 
our time, 
small creatures in flight. 

I too would like to fly, up, cross great distances from closet to counter, 
ocean to still water. You could watch me take off and land. 

You could let me circle your bulb, as bright and bold 
as the sun.