Calligraphy of a Chris Jones' poetry

Moth Collectors by Chris Jones

When our moggy brings in moths, she squeaks
through the kitchen, tips between her teeth,

and scoots upstairs to scuff under the bed.
If we find these blow-ins they’re usually dead

though a number dust the floor with tatty wings
or unfurl from sheets like pencil shavings,

furry woodcuts, a lime-green surprise –
still tremulous, and slight enough to fly.

We hold our fluttery palms to the window,
weigh each one’s chances and let go –

though tonight you pinch up slivers of moonlight,
and creatures whirr from room to room

like sooty sparks, or tightly sprung toys
glancing our low-lit angle poise.

We lie in almost solid heat;
these hours you turn with fists and feet

and cup my hand against your side to feel
the shape, the quiver of a beating heel.