For a moment there’s
metaphor in the collision

of insect and windshield,
moths and mosquitoes

pressed to the grill
when I arrive after midnight

where I want to be, held
in the embrace

of a lamppost’s light—
a shared irrelevance,

such smallness useless
in a universe spinning

away from itself,
each of us careening along

unable to see forest
or trees for the dark—

but the difference hits me
square, aware of what’s coming

and the impossibility
of getting out of its path.