On wings

Mama Earth is a moth hovering
close enough to ferment but
far enough to thrive. 

She flutters hesitantly, anxious with desire, 
ocean mouth watering like me,
for more, more, more.

More sun rays and heat waves to
kiss my temple goodbye after
this September sunset.

We were laying out late and
I had reached up in the direction I had lain:
my fingers fluttered like moth wings,
until I steadied my thumb under the curve of the corona
and blocked out
just enough light
to get a good look at you
still shining.

Out of the burst around my thumbnail 
I am warm, entranced.
Squinting one eye, the other, adjusting thumb to and fro
my eyes are watering
and my thumb and Mama Earth, they flutter
just wanting a little more

with a little less 

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