Datura

By Brooks Haxton

When the full moon rises
and the sphinx moth, hidden
all day, hovers into the twilight
between smoky blurs of wings,
in midair she spools loose
her tongue, and dips her body
into the grail cup of the fumes
for which to be the sphinx
at nightfall is to yearn.

This article available online at:

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2006/08/datura/305028/