Behold the deepest well
within yourself. Some place
you thought only despair

resides. It must be, isn’t it,
for nothing has emerged
out of it for days and days,

not even an echo to tell you
something yet stirs. Then
a moth lands on your wrist

one day. Fragile animal,
its wings a wisp of all that
you do not understand.

How are you the one left
alive, how can the morning
be relentless, how does one

put on the skin of who you are
supposed to be. How do you
continue to carry a body riddled

with hows. You know then
the sound you make. From
your belly to your throat.

There. So it flies off, sweet
visitor, dear traitor, its task
finally settled. What you have

been you cannot remain.
And what you owe this
world you cannot name.