Indivisible strands or strings

Split as thin as one could split a thing

Invisible on the lap of Dog

Woven inter

The thread which digested the Ghost of her.


Paler than palace walls

Dryer than dream recalling- calls

The moth, burnt by flamed fidelity

Applauds with well-worn and whitened wings

The end of the symphony.

“Too early” some other moths froth

Alas, trying is forswearing for the star-crossed and crass.


Little-known night blooming figs

Both quite the same, though one wears a wig

And when eaten, hottened by the sun

Fig seeds unswallowed - just as bullets become to a gun,

And still a strand of hair, stray in the heat-

One end on the tongue, the other at the feet.