Between the moth wing
and the fire,
between the river
and the road,
between the moon
and what we’re told,
between loss
and a kiss,
there is this sense
that anything
might happen—
a wound, a word,
a wondering,
an opening
to the world
just as it is.
Between the moth wing
and the fire,
between the river
and the road,
between the moon
and what we’re told,
between loss
and a kiss,
there is this sense
that anything
might happen—
a wound, a word,
a wondering,
an opening
to the world
just as it is.