Now on the kitchen table
the book lies flat without help from its reader’s hands.
The dishes in the sink sit hard and resolute.
In another room, there is a feather bed
and one red leather chair.
Above that chair,
which is worn and depressed from the relentlessness of a body
given over and given into disease,
there is a dome of light.
Inside that glass dome, dusty wings of gypsy moths
gather in a brown bouquet.
This is where lost thoughts like to land.
I swear I heard you say this
just the other day.
Front page image by Florin Rosoga.