Here, the dreaded
A moth, lit like the moon.

Alternating wingbeats —
Against the glass,
Against the screen.

Enchanting pain,
Slow burn,
Any light will do the trick —

Or —

Safe shadows,
Dreams forgone
Retreating to the night.

And there is
No road forward
To the fire.

And there is
No path back
To the gathering of sweetnesses.

All the while,
These spiders grow fat
Between the panes.


About Emily

I may or may not have: A. Dirt B. Ink C. Paint D. Wool under my fingernails.

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