Moths.

Some bewildering squall of moths might again rise florid in its
infestation from within the replastered, claydamp walls, showing us the
waiting danger of the new, as we snuffed out, feverish, every blind
brown life. Without descent, a left trace, there is an automatic end in
all things, Valery's whole loss.

                          Clapped dead between palms in the uncertain
midair, the moth discloses its mark: dust and shadow, leaf-still wings
pressed like a face on the shroud. Peace, though each had kept a
distance from candle flames.

The moths came stray, instead, this year, a reminder of the return of
older, rainmaking stars.