my

thoughts

beat as

Quickly as

the Wings of

the not

Quite

Chloroformed

moth

caught

in my

upended

Jar.

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there are

some small

brown winged

moths

in this

collection –

seen in

the right

light –

their

Mottled wings

hold a

certain

Incandescence-

an

internal glow-

heavier

than the

ornate

gilded

frames they

have been

placed

pinned

and

hung in.

 

I wake

at 6 am

eyelids

gut

hands

fluttering.

I remember

Now

that your

voice

sounded

as flat

and

Pinned

as the

gold framed

moths

i once

hung

on our

hallway wall.

You are:

eerie

resounding

sound,

real unreal.

Dusk and

full shadow,

seen unseen.

A suddenly

certain

uncertainty.

The ghost

in

my head.

 

i kiss you like the

thirsty woman kisses her

new bottle of gin

there is some pain in

this missing of you – a strong

ache deep in my bones

The dirty

petticoat

ragged

black edges

of the cloud

should have

told her

something.

And then,

she

should

have paid

attention

to

the

hungry snarl

sharp teeth

dog bite

of this

westerly

wind.

 Instead,

when the

storm finally

broke,

she was

  lingering

 summer shawled

and

 light wrapped,

draped

in a

hazy

memory of

 blue sky

and  a certain

yellowed

sun.

No jacket,

no shoes,

no umbrella,

no shelter.

No proof

at all

against

the change

in

this

 weather.

 

 

Your mark on my mouth:

Leaves my lips stained like fingers

Picking blackberries.

You burn this light all

along my nerves skin and bone.

Our conflagration.

After the

long slow

pass

of the

turning day,

she watches

the moon

being

whittled away –

 how

long

til

you

return?

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