Cella Lunae

poem #118

photo by the author

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At Ur the great stair 
led to Nannu
and Nannu 
looked his blue face down, 
to all inured
(the way the old gods
were)—a moth

died on the bars 
of my window,
which to me are 
miniscule,
a thin darkness 
on the world,
and for the moth 

a great evil
between the old sky
and the new, which never 
in her lifetime drew 
close enough for her to say 
that she could it
disprove or prove.

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