Flying with moths

It helps to welcome doom.
To know that a dream is beautiful
for no more than itself.
To write poems on grains of rice
and eat them
with a mouthful of strangers.

I met a man who stepped aside,
whose tales seem whimsical
and sometimes a little mad
as they passed across the narrow isthmus
that divides us.
He left behind a card marked "duty"
on one side
and "cowardice" on the other.

Two decades ago
a singer was born already
saying goodbye with her eyes.
I fly smiling into the night.