Semblance: Screens

A moth lies open and lies like an old bleached beech leaf, a lean-to between window frame and sill. Its death protects a collection of tinier deaths and other dirts beneath. Although the white paint is water-stained, on it death is dirt, and hapless. The just-severed tiger lily is drinking its glass of water, I hope. This hope is sere. This hope is severe. What you ruin ruins you, too and so you hope for favor. I mean I do. The underside of a ladybug wanders the window. I wander the continent, my undercarriage not as evident, so go more perilously, it seems to me. But I am only me; to you it seems clear I mean to disappear, and am mean and project on you some ancient fear. If I were a bug, I hope I wouldn’t be this giant winged thing, spindly like a crane fly, skinny-legged like me, kissing the cold ceiling, fumbling for the face of the other, seeking. It came in with me last night when I turned on the light. I lay awake, afraid it would touch my face. It wants out. I want out, too.