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.