we twist, moths, to the light
in one another's eyes. this slow
dance, through loneliness. nothing
looks like all verdant expanses- thickets
of wind, icesheets. spread heart to
fragments; points of light above
borealis, your spinning skirt. daybreak.

eight-eight hundred is a ****** of
a number, though. all volume does
dissect, though: given time, pace.
sheets smooth.
tunnels of sharp rock, most days.

and here we step, tiny specks,
blinks apart, in coat of grand
nameless machinery. words
leak, as the length of
mid-afternoon; i can
barely breathe, sometimes,
stuck in these swales of
blush& noise. it is
wonderful, sometimes,
this slow twist under
city lights.

we dance, moths, around
this sharp-tongued
flame of worldly woe,
of each other's lips.