Slowly, slowly

a dash of salt
is heavy on a
moth’s wing,
it may tilt
the journey

It must be hard
to be made out
of dust and
hand me down
arms from
other dead
winged things.

Here is your
home how, sleep
half-pressed to
resemble a
flower, sleep
with one eye
open and never
by a kitchen
window, find
a closet, a wig
or a pocket
made of wool.

Sleep until
the narrative
gives you a
new name.

(c) Sam Roderick Roxas-Chua