Burning Wings
Dark
but tolerable
The air, itself,
no longer sweating.
And the yellow moths
like some strange throw-away
tissues used up by nature
circle the lamp hanging above.
Nearer and further they stitch,
around and back and past me.
I see one fall and burn so close
to what he wants, is most driven to.
I wonder, then, what I look like
singed so often myself
and how much my soul smells
like burning wings?
Erich von Hungen is a writer from San Francisco, California. His writing has appeared in The Write Launch, Colorado Quarterly, Green Ink Press, The Hyacinth Review, IceFloe Press, Fahmidan Journal, Broken Spine Press and others. He is the author of four poetry books. The most recent is “Bleeding Through: 72 Poems of Man in Nature”. Find him on X @poetryforce.