My Moth: My Song

It goes on. Hawk moths stammer in front of
the red valerian. These words, floated
in the silence, by myself, hover close
to my thoughts. The thoughts themselves almost were
words. I think they were. I think they did. How
close is close? What colour were the moths?
There was some orange on them, and the words
were white as water. Sometimes they referred
to orange. It is difficult to say,
for instance, what it is like to hold a
field mouse in your hand. It is exactly
brown, is it? But other peoples' words come
yammering about. You have to clutch your
own, inside your hand, where something seems to
prickle like water. You make decisions.
You don't experience them. Metaphors
...