The Man-Moth

I am the Man-Moth.
I am darkness, I am darkness.
I crawl. I am a moth; I am a moth.
I shall illuminate you with my gloom,
not the light I reflect but the depth of the night
that makes your loss seem little, that the moon lights at every step I take,
that asks you to the blinding bright,
that longs for you to speak, to hear your voice.

But finally, finally, I am the night,
like a long long tidal wave washing over the land—
naked darkness.

Beneath this pale reflection—I crawl, I fade, to meet you, to find you,
to listen, to hear your voice.
I murmur to the moon,
sweet nothings,
fragrant dark.

Here they are,
years, the darkness of the moon,
the night, the night, the night.

I am cocooned—morn will seek me—
I wait and wonder.
Tell me again
what I should do about it.
All those colors
against the voids.
Never forget me.

Finally, finally, I hear your voice,
the last dull fading,
light echo
in moonlight,
the certainty coats me,
even wet,
before morning wakes. I fall into this depth—

dark. I can no longer see daylight.
Or see you.

I am dark, but you are sweet,
in the longing moonlight, as I kiss goodnight.
I spin and spin,
into the day, the geometry, the world
folds into itself.

That corpse, that fair one, is gone,
in the moment of light, in the time of living.
Even you, you held by that pallor. So even if I am darkness, I remain.
I will see you again, at night,
when all the moths return, even myself.

• Elizabeth Bishop