Why I Don’t Like Praise Poems

We put out our plates to catch
The dew from clouds of white jade,

Dense with shade, lit by a moon
That spins past all thoughts of thirst.

The prayers of moths whose words sound
Like ripped silk are heard, not served.

It’s not that we’re fond of webs,
But we, too, weave, and tie nets,

And find more art in a web
Than in the dried wings hung there.

We’re fine when dark moths are caught
By that trick of the moon.

We just lust for a few drops
Left in the form of pure dew.