Words are like dancing nocturnal moths

I wake up in the middle of the night
The words fly towards me,
swirl around me
like moths
around a lantern
in a late summer night.

Disordered dance,
neither Jenka nor disco .

Possibly Square Dance:
I realize that to some extent
I can control the words
and their order
like the Caller:
Allemande Left;
Heads Promenade!

Confused, I write
a few lines
and go back to sleep.

In the morning
I discover silver dust
on my hands.

The delicate words
have colored my fingers.

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