his eyelashes are moth wings
as they flutter open to shutter the morning's
searchlight through his windowpanes,
the sun is always concerned with
whether or not he wakes,
but today she can tell he's still breathing,
even tucked under his massive quilts,
he never fooled anyone by holding his breath

in the mornings, come thoughts that maybe he's always
been a child of the sun,
that even though she sneaks below the horizon
at night, like the mother who claimed was his,
at least she still
pinpricks the darkness with her sewing needles

but the sun mothers a solar system wide
he can never be her only child while fatherless and despondent
so he never sings her good morning
the same paradox of the moths,
who only play in the dark but cannot help but
crave illumination
maybe they are sunburnt butterflies
holding their grudges as eyes on the backs of their wings
always looking upwards and making sure
the sun hasn't crept into the sky
or maybe the child is just an orphan boy who glued
moth wings over his eyes
because he was his own son to beware of