ert mudder

on the borscht flats a little red/black day-flying moth
ascends in a tangle the spikes of sandgrass
as though a metaphor of flight of ascent
every second a year in some opposite
of geological time our feet move in slowmotion
rising to the promontory above the slide
our voices dulled and slow as we take off
years in the air we spend lifetimes in experiment
the moth seeing us coming still struggles
in sacrifice but at the end of many flying lives we crash down
our vast boots sinking deep as monsters
what nonsense we jumped we flew we shouted
alongside the tiny electrics of some other
of which we knew nothing until afterwards
look at this we cry then look
how close was that?

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