Insects clustered around
the porch light— the usual soft
brown bodies; those sharply

checkered Mondrians, ailanthus
wormwood moths. Yellow and red
Yayoi Kusama beetles.

Parachutes of heat billow over
the entire house, the stunned
and always thirsty garden.

Yes, I’ve begun to give
away little trinkets— a lizard
pin, a beaded necklace bought 20

years ago from a man in a tie-dyed
shirt in Berkeley. Soft printed cotton
scarves from India, embroidery

as jewelry. I loved them like one
can love a beautiful thing supposedly
without any real value. That is,

on sight, immediately. The way
the self can feel obliterated in two
seconds by a perfect stitch. Imagine that.

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