Porch Light: Moths

Remember last night
the porch light.
You gripped my waist
as though we might fly

apart. And I will remember
your ribcage, a husk
cradling lungs and kicking
heart. Horn of plenty.

According to ancients
cornucopia was severed
from the face of God
or a goat, depending

on mythologies:
dreams we share,
like moths
and their luminous god.

Before you and I
with these particular lips
drew breath, we costumed
ourselves with wings.

Remember how we moved
as smoke, hassled flame
with arrhythmia—
vital, flawed.
Our wings brushed visions
that could not be possessed.