I thought it was a large moth, mistook it
For a portent of something special
In the wind:
A dusky desert brother
To the red darts usually seen.
It looked down on its luck,
Then up again, down,
Then, with a pirouetting loop,
Penned the air in a grand sweeping
Signature to the left.
Its is a rapier’s thrust, a phlebotomist’s
Needle probing before setting deep.
Its very name could be Sudden.
Like now,
In front of my window, it makes the sign
Of the cross, then,
Heart the size of a pea,
It delves and it suckles,
Thistles of light where
The wings ought to go.
Where the heart goes. That quick.
That tentative. That sure.