End of Summer
Bats fly in blind loops.
I have confused them with my fire.
It is a fine, practical fire. It is not lit by
melodramatic kindling: Crumpled letters, torn-up photos.
An errant ember ignites a moth's
washi paper wings.
End of Summer
End of Summer
Bats fly in blind loops.
I have confused them with my fire.
It is a fine, practical fire. It is not lit by
melodramatic kindling: Crumpled letters, torn-up photos.
An errant ember ignites a moth's
washi paper wings.
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