The glass was on the nightstand

The glass was on the nightstand.

In the morning, the water was still,

but a moth was pinned against the surface,

its legs treading nothing.

One wing was bent back,

a wet hinge that wouldn't snap shut.

It looked like a piece of sodden tissue

someone had tried to throw away.

I used a toothpick to lift it out.

It left a smudge on the rim of the glass,

a grey, powdery ghost of itself

that wouldn't wash off with just a rinse.

It shivered once on the towel and stayed.