Still We Spin by Angie Spoto

Pollinated by Still We Stay

 

It is midnight.

I can tell because the music

has stopped and the field

we stand in has fallen,

grass feet-up to the stars,

on its back.

 

There are circles between us,

and white dust motes of pollen,

and two lochs behind us

before us, spinning.

 

You are a moth in the end,

resting wings for a while

still on a warm car’s hood

and I think I left my wings

at home, as usual, typical me.

 

Up on the hill, the music

kicks up again for an encore,

and the field recovers from

our hangover.

 

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