The moon grows from nothing to a porcelain sliver.
The cat bloodies her feet against the screen chasing moths.

Our children sleep in the rooms above while I drag a cloth
across the red petals the cat leaves on the kitchen floor.

I join you in the bed of this passing hour, knowing
porcelain will again sift through the screen, and, again,

moths will flood to it: light cut by their beating wings,
which come morning our children will find in pieces.