Moth

This is okay,
lying here,
being the night,
being the breath
and the rumbling wind
outside the window,
outside the body—
I have no body.
I am nobody,
only fantasies fluttering
and dusting
milky blackness
in a bedroom.
I cannot be shattered,
or have thoughts pruned;
no voice or word can touch
me, the stillness
of mind and life.
I am the womb
of night,
mother and babe,
father and son,
dreamer and dream
with knees pressed to chest,
and arms folded tight—
Truly, I have no limbs
only light
wings
that cut no air in their flight.