I keep a Luna in my drawer because I might want  
to employ it. Read the pale wings & in doing so feel less  
irrelevant. Look into eyespots, cut my wrists on lavender  
edges. Reach into the drawer every other spring & feel  
for moth, my letter opener. Aprils, when I break the wings off 
& eat them like wafers, I’m milky green. There’s little to say  
about that; still, I file the paperwork. In my house,  
there are many drawers, many lepidoptera. Cabinets of receipts,  
pay stubs, W2s. I’ve been waiting to shred the pages. The library  
I know as forest is tapering; I keep it alive with a ventilator.  
This is my ethic. Honestly, getting older, I no longer supply  
the world’s goods & services, much less the Red-Fringed  
Emerald’s. A moth like the Emerald talks in its sleep.  
It takes a village to deforest it. If the forest dies, I’ll run  
the numbers, sort through specimens. Search the antiquarians  
for Sphinxes or Death’s Head Hawks that digest the dark mood  
where I’m furloughed. But with a Luna in the drawer, I live forever  
lightfast. Feed me, Hungry Caterpillar, microdots of light. I draw 
from the Moon a revenue stream. I write the IRS with thanksgiving 
in my heart. I plead not guilty for the littlest things.