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
