holy orders

seep of dune sand to fondle your
long feet to kiss your white hem
gliding over the bodycount of
moths fallen dead on gypsum
still more fall around you
gigantic as angels like snow
like ash like aftermath
of eruption or wildfire of
waiting for an august monsoon
gypsum and corpses and you
and everything sunbleached
pure white as priesthood as
secrets of men and i hunched
witchdark beyond the moths
a small shadow watching


I wish we'd met while it lived; that it had taught me moth-tongue.