94: coma, interlude 20


I said
and felt a long rectangle
extend out into gray space
where I had yet to reach
but hoped to reach

and imagined
a nightwing moth
coming to the bush flowers
and the other flowers
I used to watch
where the moth
would visit
and the leaves
and the flowers
would reach erect
to touch
its soft withy tongue
in an expression
of pleasure, night pleasure,
reaching, a strange
romance of the natural
where the edges grow sharp
behind the moth blur,
and the light grows dim

and I wonder at the law
and its incipience,
taking things away,
but making beginnings,
where I disappear,
under the moth wing’s quiet,
like a hum, a silent buzz,
like that time I touched
a spider in its wed,
just to touch it,
and it turned to my finger,
grasped it with its little eight legs,
and hung on for dear life.

One Comment