Moths

by Ann Douglas


Frost, copper

Window, fence

So much
depends on not knowing.
Like a spell.

Like the tension
between headlong and
ground.
                Dedication
to dedication, a calling

was like that, calling
ahead. You were meant
to feel

the wind’s vigor
on your face.
And to risk—that was the positive,
the currency

that promised
not to cash-in, deflate or go missing.

How to connect
without the valuable
at stake between us?

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