Static Blues

The bug zapper
is where the moth finds its death metal,

where lure and life
come together
and cease to exist

in a static snap.
and then what?

another carcass
for the arc.

this moth and I
circle the lumens of the pseudo moon
to find our bearings
lost

in hues of static blues,
penning asymptotic thoughts
in field notes, butcher's cuts, cannibalistic,
so close to the truth
it tastes like tofu.

though the truth is flesh and bone,
not this faux taxidermy—
we splay its limbs
to study it
again
and again
bloodless

until the zap—
and we are
somewhere else

perhaps brighter, darker:
a seraphic static beyond veils
or a pixelated null

where fluorescent perceptions snap
their binary spine