At the very lengthy meeting
I actually felt my soul leave my body
and
rush toward the ceiling—
and fly around the walls and flare
toward
daylight, toward the windows—
to throw silently its impetuous
emptiness
against the glass in vain.
It could not go anywhere, the clear
moth.
Then it lay on the rug, not exhausted
but bored and so inert
that it almost—
though nothing—
took on a hue, stained with all the
breaths
and words and thoughts that filled the room:
the yellow-green
color of old teeth.
"At the Very Lengthy Meeting" by Kevin McCaffrey from Laughing Cult. © Four Winds Press, 2014.
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