The Hermit Has a Visitor

Once he puts out the light

moth wings on the window screen slow

and drop away like film lapping the spool

after the home movie runs out.

He lies curled like a lima bean

still holding back its cotyledon.

Night is a honeycomb.

Night is the fur on a blue plum.

And then she sings. She raises the juice.

She is a needle, he the cloth.

She is an A string, he the rosewood.

She is the thin whine at concert pitch.

She has the eggs and he the blood

and after she is a small

red stain on the wall

he will itch.