A man and woman lay in bed for days.
She read, or watched reality TV.
He sipped bourbon, sunk in a drowsy haze.
Between them sprawled a gulf they couldn’t see.
A moth flew in the lampshade by her drawer,
shaking the fabric like a trampoline,
then smacked the windowpane, the bathroom door.
She slept. He recalled when they were nineteen
and starting out, they’d chased a moth inside
his father’s study, where they first made love.
It occurred to him now, turning on his side,
that this was a story best not spoken of.
The moth flew toward the mirror, then the bath,
knocking against glass to get to the blue.
He saw how far it was. He did the math.
It knocked against the glass, and flew, and flew.