i.

i am an easter moth,

waiting for the eastern sun

to pull my wings, unfurling,

out of sleepy liquid-tides

(on the cusp of waking)

'til sun-dried, for going up

soft thoughts, folded oddly

misty morning,

forming to become movement,

on the cusp of going up.

ii.

frail teams: waking, working

give heed to the sun's way

after falling, somnias

(last heavy instinct

kept from the herd)

in-betweens thought of-

we have a fractured vanity

at the crack of dawn

as true as skin, clear as glass

when we wake as human.