The wind is a shove and the metal gives a slap

The wind is a shove and the metal gives a slap,

a rhythmic, hollow, persistent little trap.

A moth is a blur against the gray wire net,

wanting the light that it hasn’t found yet.

There’s a tear in the corner, a jagged orange rust,

where the world keeps on turning into fine, brown dust.

It’s hitting the frame.

I can't sleep with it banging like that.