suki@reed.UUCP (Monica Nosek) (03/05/85)
maybe just maybe and with all my heart I love you and at that you turn and walk away. one salt tear slides down my face and dries in a saline web the spider of despair has spun he won't be held, my moth, by web or promise he walks the coals and flies through fire seeking flame be wary, moth, of candles; they burn bright and hot. -monica
thoma@reed.UUCP (Ann Muir Thomas) (08/31/86)
MOTHS Reading someone else's poem about moths, and watching one meet its fate in an electric lightbulb... Is what makes me wild sometimes the moths rather than the moon? Moths veering wildly into God's illumination, burning to death by their seeking my innocence? Someday there will be no more moths or perhaps no more pyre to receive them. And then-- I will be without a soul.