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.
