Translucent fabrics, I do awake to, Hours spent, to rough cloth illuminated, Each complex pattern I already knew, Each one a dream long sublimated. Like the midnight show, just run now rerouted, The light exploding through, and moths pursued The curtain cloth to moth now transmuted, And wind caresses become wings of the brood. The beating of wings rises beyond roaring, And my mind is captured, no more by moths, But thunderous dreams of angels soaring! 'Till their wings all became darkened sun blots. I felt my minds end was all but certain, Then alone again, with light and curtain.
