Mothwings

mothwings folded into a
matchbox, the transparent
fluttering quelled to the
quiet of a heartbeat, the
galloping quieted for at
least a moment, a
brief respite in which the
birds take over, weaving a
song that falls from
the trees

ever never, never ever,
the black pools open up,
inky, and invite one to
test the temperature, brace
oneself for a taste, to
breach the unknown

ever never, never ever,
heart beats, thick, the
muscle sinewed over with
scars, the striations that
reveal past encroachments
upon that sacred space

pulsing and releasing, the
language in hasty meters,
ever never, never ever,
to breathe again as
once before