Unbidden, the soft gray
moth flutter whispers lust,
beats itself against
the inside of a rib cage
picked clean of flesh by beetles
iridescent blue, each the size
of a fingernail. We view pale
flame from a distance. Ghost-white
it rises from the grass.
Our footfall harvests cold tears cried
in the night. Sobbing wives
left in black, bereft in lace:
"Flores para los muertos."
A departure draped in a moment's grace.
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