Brown moth, so gross, like my hand
rustles in a still-dark corner of untouched hand.
Get in touch with beings,
when the laughter was between memories—–
I know my nights, my mornings, my period.
They made heavy and boundless, like being locked in the corner.
A moth, wings too. And yet, is he just a puny, wrong bird.
painter, who forgot his brush on the darkest wall,
the expectation brings, she is dreading.
After seven days it is in my hands. Finished.
I say, before the day rises golden:
Good night butterfly to your lonely madman.
eye of my stone-dead sorrow.
Your liveliness was deeply confused.