when i will be beaten by the sun a moth 
will flicker from my mouth — three moths 
will flicker from my mouth — they will follow 
their desires — i am not american and i am not 
european asian african australian antarctican 
i am a sojourner born from the froth of the sea 
dying atop the froth of sea i wait 
for the sovereign to visit the horizon with His
sun dogs, maybe they’ll chew the moths 
from their wings or maybe the sun will point 
one knotted finger 
and all three moths — my childhood my whisper into pillow my sense of skin— 
cleaving air towards their one higher power shrivel
into ash on a saltflaked breeze