Zach Wells

July 2014 // two poems

Zach Wells:
In Conversation


Would I be doing x if not for y?
Fucked if I know. Can't imagine why
not, but then neither can I stir the cream
and sugar from my coffee. The disinterest

rate is indexed to entropic dégrin-
golade and life is but a lucid dream:
you can change the outcome on the fly,
but it takes absurdly rigid discipline.


for Richard Dawkins

You'd swear they were made for self-immolation
the way they spiral onto ad hoc pyres
—bonfires, candlewicks, shivaree mobs—
but crossed wires
is what prompts moths to offer themselves
as tithe to some lunatic church. Delve
deeper: what misfires
is an elegant compass to which stars
and moon, optically infinite, are lodestone
of a luminate sort: their glow,
shed on her eyes' arrayed guides, shows
the moth home. Rays shone
in spikes, like spokes from a hub, 
draw her to headlights, autos-da-fé, torches:
the moth’s led astray by our radiant porches.