Characterized, when switched on, by motion. The air in front of our mouths full
of moths. Some made a half-hearted attempt to memorize the inconstant sky.
By day or by night it kept changing. Sometimes stars favouring the left quarter.
At others the moon almost touching the pond. We have no memory. The ride
goes on. Occasionally something shudders and a superseded piece of the machinery
takes part in the conversation of discovery. It might be an adventure if we think
that way though, for myself, I’ve first to forget the existence of the ticket.
Author Discusses Poems