I wait for the moths of my mind to stop their fluttering for a time.
To settle, like dust, on the surface of this autumn's reality.
So then they'll eat holes in possible plans, if I tuck them away in a drawer, to forget,
as I prepare to drone through winter.
Or in spring, I can write a word in this layer, if it's thick enough and has settled lifeless by then.
To settle, like dust, on the surface of this autumn's reality.
So then they'll eat holes in possible plans, if I tuck them away in a drawer, to forget,
as I prepare to drone through winter.
Or in spring, I can write a word in this layer, if it's thick enough and has settled lifeless by then.
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