watching the moths in the apple tree, the dying of the light

cars go by below and their headlights make a flash like shootings stars when they glance across the telephone wires

gnawed by strange anxiety: i dream that your face reconfigures, you are no longer yourself. a stockier man with the same stranger's visage sits behind you, motionless. i chop an onion finely and do not stop as i begin to mince the hand holding it. i take away my own fingers.

i probably have gangrene, send my love to my mother