This is no act of creation. What

has the moth to do with

anything?

And what have we become in

this turmoil of the dark, but

selves open, again

to wonder? It is only that we

missed the weight of flesh.

And though

we are not always, we are,

at least, here, longing, and

we are

the earth that absorbs our noise, and

we are the tender worms

that also absorb.

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