You fold this sweater the way a moth
builds halls from the darkness it needs
to go on living—safe inside this closet
a family is gathering for dinner, cashmere
with oil, some garlic, a little salt, lit
and wings warmed by mealtime stories
about flying at night into small fires
grazing on the somewhere that became
the out-of-tune hum older than falling
—you close the drawer and slowly
your eyes shut—with both hands
make a sign in the air as if death matters.
