The Hazards in Catch and Release


A Moth’s Digression


It was only a lunate zale moth, that hole

on my study wall.


I placed my hand over it, then slowly

slid it shut


until the cupped darkness fluttered

and my deaf palm


felt a whispering inside. Outside,

slowly opening its cell,


I saw the moth’s mantle of fur, the soft

chips of dust its wings brushed on


the Zen garden groove of fingertips.

A nudge and it flew, ascending


until a barn swallow hit it mid-flight,

leaving a brief hole in the air.

                                                       — Ken Craft


This poem appeared in my first collection, The Indifferent World (FutureCycle Press, 2016).