Moths

You won’t hear anything
at night in Montana.
The black is thick
and the mute fills your ears
like cotton.
Here is heaven, the absence of senses;
there is the light that keeps the damned moving
like a prison camp megaphone.
Sisyphus is a moth
near a motion sensor lamp;
you’re staring out the window
when someone calls your name.

– Darby, MT

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Taken in Darby, MT

Red Tide

All washed up,
in plain sight,
history a tide,
haunting me with echoes
like whales drifting apart.
Poems lap the shore,
they are cheap, and worn.
It doesn’t come anymore,
I have to fake it.

– Darby, MT

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Taken in Seattle, WA