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there is something in the air
that speaks to the piercing rain -
some giant, flailing whisp of interminable beauty.
the dazzling electroshock of occassional
wonderful in appearance,
sinister in execution.
the moon lingers in the water,
but disappears on land -
a delicate pool of illuminated sand
with no distinction from the blazing sun of tomorrow.
will the endless drops of rain destroy the
tiny wings of the moth?
so fragile and defenseless,
it finds shelter beneath my porch
and loses itself in the ceiling lamp.