that patter of night is a moth at the window; beating its wings beats it fingers it frustratedly it has had a long day or a dry case—a dry case of blues of sleep and you have eagerness that breezes away that patters against the window, chasing light other side, a family home, a warmth; no bats there Up down or down or up the strings the wings go; antennae flutter constantly but a love you resisting lover window—a smoker arrives to pleasure the air with his final day’s tobacco; at last he is in |
Sunday, June 30
That Patter
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