Diane LeBlanc
Evening wings a grey moth in blue light,
sea harbor-salted light.
Moths have long understood
a white tip of branch is not light.
A friend grows shallow and pale, paved with tumors.
Hours are stencils. Hollowed eggs. Leaf light.
His brain bleeds. We wait, watching
words once moist harden and grow light.
Alone, I stir puddles into dry paint cakes.
Red fruit stains rag cotton’s white light.
I dab a paper sky with black dots. I paint
his absence–every star an inversion of light.
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