Dead moth elegy

The moth has stopped flying.
The moth has landed
permanently by the fallen
soda can, smushed condom
box, mangled pizza crust.
Did it hit a bus?
O, to bear it dignity.
The moth has stripes
like grill marks, front leg
gone, a lilting forewing
torn like paper, and guts.
The moth is resting
not like a car wreck
bushed in a junkyard
but more like spry
enuf to be fed to the world.