Moths bat their brains to powder
against the streetlight

Their sorrow is something like
buyer’s remorse. They chose
their paths but now regret it,

On no set schedule it roams
the streets with nothing
written on its forehead.

He used to know so
much—had mastered
dead languages, could

This morning there was another one
Looking used but not worn out
Beside the road
What do they mean

You are the secret conscience of the age.
Your power is confirmed
in the milkman's punctuality.

Smooth muscles tic. Honeyed sunlight
spreads thickly on stadium grass. 
Drinkers of grace shout throats dry,