moths beat
powdered wings against
as if trying
to enter paradise.
Where
groans
Where was the chaos
of grief?
the strange,
half-human
one body
stroked
from another?
The long drought
encouraged me,
then a death,
pestilence-
slugs cored roots
wi th their tubby
blue-black
glearning.
Winds
took over
the colors
I di scarded,
their frills,
nasturtiums' silks,
all
the stricken
shapes
of my desire.
Now birds
gesture
startled from their feasting
nse,
of the old life
flutters
up to light
in the thicket
the rank spill,
where I am just
one consequence
of its wildness.
