In the deep dark

In the deep dark fibers of the belly

Iron moth wings flap, creaking/

beyond peripheral vision/

there—no—there. Or there./

Not a moth—a bat. Hovering./

Mechanics threatening breakage/

overhead. Not a bat—/

hawk, vulture, dragon./

that used to digest Caviar

and deflated champagne bubbles

is a feeling of what was and of what will never be again.


Edited by Venus Davis. Words by Kerry Trautman and Frances Palladino.