Moth

after Mike Essig

First flame winged flight, banking tentative. Warily circling,
Sensing the currents fluttering. Reality’s loft crossed, drafted by fresh perception.
Natural this magic that ensorcels the worm in chrysalis suspension.
Dead Lazarus also emerged astonished and blinking,
Grinning and stinking with that second life scent of fresh decay and jasmine.
Was the world always huge, stretched in all directions, embraced by elliptic horizons?



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