For a moment there’s
metaphor in the collision
of insect and windshield,
moths and mosquitoes
pressed to the grill
when I arrive after midnight
where I want to be, held
in the embrace
of a lamppost’s light—
a shared irrelevance,
such smallness useless
in a universe spinning
away from itself,
each of us careening along
unable to see forest
or trees for the dark—
but the difference hits me
square, aware of what’s coming
and the impossibility
of getting out of its path.
Issue