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Poem	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.
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