Before man, the moon

    was escort—though not to light

but to the dark they seek

turning furred backs to bright

    apertures of constellations

far enough away to feel fixed

so the thousand ommatidia

    of their eyes—like sailors’

charting sombre-hued waters—

followed orbs celestial, shining,

    gilded as Charon’s coins pressed

over the lids of night’s still face

then came streetlamps, electric

    bulbs buzzing, UV outshining

lights dimmed by lightyears

so in each confused approximation

    the false star flickering shifts in view,

spinning the winged body’s instinct

round and round and round

    the flightpath a frenzied mortal coil

that turns, then snaps, and traps

the fallen body, the shuddered

    wings—eyespots now folded closed

beneath the sky’s black water