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The Moths
by LB Williams

In the mist of pine needles,
pin cushions and the gab of birds
            a green shirt hangs on a plastic chair.

Virginia Woolf first named her
novel, The Moths,
            then changed it to The Waves.

She wanted to record
what remains when we are
            no longer here.

I walk outside‐
hundreds of them
            gather in bushes.
Or they wait on screens,
wings folded.
 

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