Net Worth
The screens I stapled up Years ago have peeled back Like detached retinas Through which the world that surrounds The shack is doubly darker The staples rusted away like teeth Gone loose in a dead deer’s jaw But there are few bugs anyway The breeze confuses them There are two moths caught where The screen curled over I could free them but Then they’d leave me I’d be bereft of moths Moth-poor And I fear any further deprivation Though in truth I am rich In light and leaves And these two moths like equity Sunk in land