Little Spell
The caterpillar digests 
itself—that, the moth 

remembers. By design 
the former self ceded

to overhaul the heart. 
At rest among fruit 

trees: the brown cloud 
of its wings. And love- 

sick drones are scanning 
the nettle, mites 

unbinding their dead- 
white girdles of silk, 

as though the doomed 
leaves will last—

the readers of 
fate on furlough, the first

hard frost far off.
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