THE WRITHING MOTH OF PESTILENCE
When they ring the bell for the Captain and no
one comes forth, what shall we do then? That
writhing moth turns withering when? Outside
my window, the water looms again: same the
boundaries, same the tier. Leaves soon to grow
are but buds now to me. I hear the hallowed
wind winding through the wooded lane. And
a buster for a bolster, but still I'm glad I came.
-
When I look down, everything is covered in
last year : leaves and branches, and some tracks
where tires have been. Animals too leave scat.
Not knowing what to do with myself, I lunge
through the clotted path : for stickers and vines
to clutch me, and entangle me fast. I do not yet
know what to say about something like that.
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