Old Life

“Tell me, what shall we do with this hour of abundance?” ~ Deryn Rees-Jones

From between the window
and its screens, I lift whole
insect bodies swathed in webs

like spun cotton: funerary
vestments, or the finished
playbill after dress

rehearsal— Dinner first,
then that other hunger,
sex. Who served, who

waited for the visitor
to dally? In that space—
interstitial, between

entry and egress—
filaments are threshed
the same as time.

Here are jewels it has left
behind: blue vein of tattered
wing, dark prismed eye.

 

In response to small stone (217).

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