moth

“…like wine through water…” (Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights)

An isolated dream
that was forgotten
embedded, though, in my change.
My beings secret
lost and kept in a labyrinthine heart
going spasmodically thumpslapthump
so loud
that I cannot drive a searching
thought
into any clear remembrance of its delicate veins,
its cellular membranes -
its strands running thin as silver,
tumbling and too light to grasp,
holding its seed and flying over.