Every autumn

I’m impressed anew by the sheer inventiveness of death.

I dreamed a giant silk moth fluttered into a museum

and joined its life-like relatives on the wall.

I dreamed I’d written a book about all my disguises.

When I woke up, it was true.

The rain comes hammering on the plush roof of the earth.

on the plush roof of the earth. After a while, it opens one by one its mush rooms.

Four months away

even the full moon isn’t
where I left it