Came across this poem today that I'd forgotten I'd written...don't know how long ago.
Forgetting a poem that formed itself
Perfectly in the night is like a moth
caught in a spiderweb long abandoned: the
moth’s life wasted; the spider unperceiving
of its acquisition and unaware its
rare and sapid meal remains neglected.
All the moth’s failed effort to stay alive,
all the struggle and strive, the fervid flutter,
the death disregarded by fellow moths, the
transfixing on a toilet window that never sees the
cleaner’s cleaning, all speak fervently of the
loss of a poem formed perfectly in the night.
