It was there on the arm of my rocker
when I turned on the floor lamp, 
a tiny moth clipped from the edge
of the night before, gray upon gray 
like a dirty city, wings coated with odors
and noise, the beep of a backing truck,
the smells from a seafood restaurant,
waxy sweetness of lipstick. And as soon
as the light grew strong enough to lift it
it was gone, smoke to the shadows, 
taking with it the fur collar that brushed
my cheek, a wisp of hair across my lips,
the request that the band never played,
and it was morning, and the house was cold.