Saturday, November 3


feelers down ; the seventeen-
thirty-two moth motioned
—or was about to
something caught its eyes—

old enough on a sill
of lippy 70s transport

a train
my train &
London my
London( in my enemy Black)

not eyes, antennae—forgive me
—furry body bud & just fragile
wings out o the oven, still warm
,with a smell on the seventeen-
thirty-two east anglia

adjusting, lo, adjusted
to the adjacent
bark of a brown
of a girly hair

(I recognise you!)

was he who roamed the front

& as she saw him
sleepy she’d been
nervous was she

that she was not a trunk
nor a shard of bark nor
nature gone dark

he fluttered clumsy his wings’ pigment
& if everyone in the carriage didn’t take
note n become unsettled at once

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