Reaching, or What Never Is

The moth is gone again, and I turn on the lights. 
I wish I could tell you whether any of it mattered.

The storm drains like a throat, a silver-scaled 
fish rotten with its own heartbreak. 

I wonder about heartbreak. 

I wonder about the frogs in the winter too, their narrow 
bodies fluttering like shadows against the house’s siding. 

But that is summer and now I’m wondering about broken things, 
as if another season of deep ache is coming,

the nature of nothing more.