Leaves no longer shy from their speckles,
The dark green of the trunk is turning into dry black,
And between the wrinkles, cool air accumulates its cocoons.
The sun strikes its square steps on the earth,
Its slanting light calm and soft; the night is elongated
And grows flaccid, unable to reclaim upon cock-crows
The spirits that stole out of the bodies.
Those whose souls have taken their nocturnal flights are now preening
In front of a foggy mirror for a should-be image,
One soul shoveled into the flesh and the other auto-saved into a digital gadget;
Before fully awake, they have hurried down into the pedestrian crowd.
Last night, two shiny moths fly their bridal dance,
The beautifully crossed arches do not exist in the physical world,
And even memory cannot remember which one is hungry and which bloated.