A moth landed on my lips
And kissed me
I turned into a skyscraper, a rose
A rose is a fire engine
The street is a cup of coffee
America is a big rug puzzle for kids
There is a pit in me
Moths aren’t nostalgic
Moths are flickering lightbulbs
Moths in industrial London got darker
Industrial London was made of moths
Soot landed on my lips
Soot is smeary on my lips
Like newspaper words
More poems should be newspapers
More moths should be soot
More tomatoes should be cherries
Sometimes I don’t want to be in a place that smells like a public toilet
Sometimes I want to land in a heap of ash
Swallowed in a silent cough
Like every moth
Photo by Rúben Marques on Unsplash
