Moths Come In All Shapes

Flood lights blind me
and bind me.
They have for this entire stretch of road.
Am I moth to a flame?

No.

I just want to get home.
The top rack of the truck
Is unbearably bright.
Torching my retinas
each foot, inching forward.
I pull over.

I know where you were executed.
I visited your final stand this morning.
Your blood, no longer fresh,
Lies there still.
Waiting for the temperatures to conflict.
Waiting for the sky to open up,
Washing away all proof of your final moments.

Your blood is a trail.
You were dragged.
The trail will be gone soon,
As you are now.

Your legs crippled,
That is no future for a deer.
No crying or whining,
You sat
Still.

. pop .

Michael Carney