it is happening again

all the lights are going out

phantoms rising up

through the sewers

vents of manholes

like pale and quavering anthers

searching for stable waters

cresting the sooty, indignant waves

the night comes again,

the lights go out in a dark street.but the moth is here in my hand

in my hand, it is here

just there, towards the bend

the purpling vein

the cuticle slice

a wide pulse of wings

which will never cease

seizuring impossibly

towards the separate, intangible light

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