Privacy

today a moth
was in my hat
when I put it on

my summer straw hat,

wherein I pretend I’m Don Quixote,
especially on an August afternoon.
When the world outside tilts to the sun,

the world under my hat
is cool and dim
and occupied by me alone,

usually, but today this tickle,
this frightened telegraph in my hair,

this white moth,

who, escaping, hovered
eye to eye, as if to say
it was me who disturbed him,

wings thinner than this page
and really not white
but more like gray ash on snow

Originally published in Tulsa Review