Spectre of Old Self
Where will I put my hands in the evening light? Towards the bungalow of weathered moths that are collecting in this last summer moon of ours. I could put them in the catch of marching fears
I keep near the bed. Or, with my mother’s wink.
The evening light is beckoning, calling like a wet stone of longing, to crack the bones, to leave you like freshwater. & I am moving across a river to somewhere only the evening light touches, softly.
