Floodlit skywards – black gashes on the monument’s side,

splinters of shadow, clotted dark –

moths hang head downwards, wingspreads wavering

in still currents of night, as if watching us.

Silent guardians of this grave whiteness,

perpetual slivers in the shifts of the city,

they linger suspended, eerie angels

light as ash in air;

burnt paper offerings of an earth that reveres

those who lie long now in her memory.

<< / >>