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The Bodies of Moths
The bodies of moths
litter the windowsill like
the empty wrappers of bubblegum
empty minds
empty wings
they crackle in the sun pouring in through the dusty cracked
window; dust motes lazily circle on some current of air
undetectable
The bodies of moths
are so dry; parched, I am afraid that if I touch them
all the moisture will be sucked out of me
until I am merely a husk,
a shell,
something that remains after the life has
flown away
I sweep up the moths
ashamed in a way;
They lie there silent
on the sun-dried windowsill;
what right do I have to disturb the dead
in their peaceful slumber?
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