Between the moth wing
and the fire,
between the river
and the road,
between the moon
and what we’re told,
between loss
and a kiss,
there is this sense
that anything
might happen—
a wound, a word,
a wondering,
an opening
to the world
just as it is.
I like the assonance of: word, wondering, world (with the alliterating, wound, leading the way). It sets a nice rhythm to leave the poem resonating in the reader.
And if it’s “always between” all of these things, then (just maybe?) it’s ultimately always there, period.
Great title here, it carries the poem so gently.