Killing a Moth with Compressed Air

I raise the cool metal can to eye-level,
Double-check its strawlike proboscis
And take aim
At a haze of flapping, aimless yet furious,
As if already in the throes of death
The initial blast is a shock to the system
(A sickly foal’s first Russian winter)
The second makes the wings grow stiff
(The foal shivers on the barren steppe)
The third comes at point-blank range
(The foal collapses in the icy gale)
And with a grace it never had in life,
The moth, like a winter leaf, falls

Gingerly, I pick up my freeze-dried specimen
I examine the markings on its wings
And crush it in the fist of victory