You have an ad blocker! We understand, but...
PoetrySoup is a small privately owned website. Our means of support comes from advertising revenue. We want to keep PoetrySoup alive, make it better, and keep it free. Please support us by disabling your ad blocker
on PoetrySoup. See how to enable ads
while keeping your ad blocker active. Also, did you know you can become a PoetrySoup Lifetime Premium Member
and block ads forever...while getting many more great
features. Take a look!
When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks
through the kitchen, tips between her teeth,
and scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed.
If we find these blow-ins they’re usually dead
though a number dust the floor with tatty wings
or unfurl from sheets like pencil shavings,
furry woodcuts, a lime-green surprise –
still tremulous, and slight enough to fly.
We hold our fluttery palms to the window,
weigh each one’s chances and let go –
though tonight you pinch up slivers of moonlight,
and creatures whirr from room to room
like sooty sparks, or tightly sprung toys
glancing our low-lit angle poise.
We lie in almost solid heat;
these hours you turn with fists and feet
and cup my hand against your side to feel
the shape, the quiver of a beating heel.
| Best Poems | Short Poems
Email Poem |
Top Chris Jones Poems
Analysis and Comments on Moth Collectors
Provide your analysis, explanation, meaning, interpretation, and comments on the poem Moth Collectors here.