in the beginning was the beginning;
the moth between the light bulbs
drummed out the hour of my birth
with a cadence of fingerprints.
Soon to be on the other side
from seeing the light ere its death,
which written in Sutterline script
is still novel to every creature.
The moth told of a prophecy
a few seconds into the future,
wishing that the Fates
would get their fingers entangled.
According to the logic of time,
we all emerged from this state,
from some Olbers’ paradox
where the bulbs are limited.
To whence we return ā the end,
or the end of the end,
as stale as a loaf of bread,
As musty as a moth — yet more familiar
Michael Smith is an Assistant Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published over 150 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 80 different journals. He loves to travel.
