Untitled Poem For Sarah Every morning you'd think all the moths would throw themselves into the Sun. But they wait for streetlights to consume them in small coughs of sparkle. My dear, my dear, my dear: I have stopped listening to my moth soul. My dear, I am done tilting at streetlights. My paper wings soar, brush your blazing heart.
This poem appears in Central Avenue and the Omaha World-Herald and in Mason’s Things We Don’t Know We Don’t Know from The Backwaters Press