elegy for William Matthews: 1941-1997
 

He answered the phone uncertainly,
longdistance dark between us,

and the sound of caught breath,
wheezing, then a drawn out silence.

I asked if anything was wrong.
He coughed and said he'd been alone

in his apartment all day, watching
the snow fly, listening to jazz,

feeling something slowly grow inside.
"Your phone call did it," he said.

"When I opened my mouth just now,
a huge hawkmoth fluttered out."

I knew better than to ask further.
I see it still beating at the overhead light.