Streetlamps of orange paint fallen into black midnight oil, cold night air, shimmering lines of raindrop leaves, old blues and new mornings up unknown sleeves, piped moonbeams reflecting glimmering remnants of the late evening sun, chalk moon and crimson library shelves cough (from the opposite loft), outlaw painter of rain, of paper telescopes inside broken coffee cups, of ink filled fruit hung from underground rivers Howled from the depths of Desolation Row, serpents of October, through the empty streets, dressed in blue (Ain’t it just like the night?), drinking dark purple wine from lanterns lined in landscape elaborations, barefoot, blueberries, the morning Blackbird, and his quiet symphonies. How can I explain? From inside the gravel filled inkwells, the distant sound of trembling trees, shadows of the cold dust begin to entwine across this wooden floor, dilated eyes glanced upon the delicate movement of the opening door (the country music station played soft), tattered twilight gloom, the bones of her face, seemed like the mirror and now breathing wild phantoms of this summer’s night air, until once again, the rain falls onto this note paper.

— nightly moth.

May, 2023.

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Notes from various mornings and nights