About

I.

The dervish whirls—
deserts fable
over candles,
atop mantle fires,
wings for life.

A salient moth
labors over no lands,
exists in The Great,
extends her wings
to The Wide,
middle-age night

to flutter near the floor,
flit in the rafters—
a lamp,
her vessel for ballet
on night’s broken stage.

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What I Do

Thinker

Writer

Etc

Musician