More in Dregs & Other Unreadables
fruit of my mistake
a sliver of glass is poked out
on the old stormdoor
so the moths can come in for tea
they bounce through the air
each tiny breeze a joy ride
until they land softly next to me
i say nothing, of course
the whole of the hole is mine
so the moths come through 'cause of me
they flutter and trounce
from kitchen to hall,
like a circus for just me to see.
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