as the forearms of a folk hero.
Atlas moths cling to the window
screen, freeze their wings
into sleep
unknowable
as the mind
of an opponent soldier —
opaque as any other creature,
winged or
only terrestrial.
Imagine that these Atlas
moths don’t see us anymore,
their minds exploring a war
still undefeated, undefined — unspoken —
knowing only the wreckage
of the future, distant
glacial lakes draped
with a green-blue blanket
of algae — ice sheet gone —
how rare
they are in the darkness,
how hard and bright and white,
precise as the modern red-brown-orange
painting of a moth’s wings
designed by no one
we know.