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The Moth
The Moth

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The fingers of my right hand are stained, smudged by the smeared scales of rumpled wings. A half-crushed moth quivers in my left palm. It will not outlive my regret for a startled swat undeserved. I consider: fallen sparrows wilted . . .

The fingers of my right hand are stained, smudged by the smeared scales of rumpled wings. A half-crushed moth quivers in my left palm. It will not outlive my regret for a startled swat undeserved. I consider: fallen sparrows wilted lilies crushed moths. Sacred beauties all. Fragile all. Too fleeting to hold for long. I…

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