Under the moon’s thin-bulbed lamp
run the clouds' pink batting, and over them
the dotted stitch of the geese long
and uneven over sky seams that unravel
as the twilight folds. The land's aslant
as if slipping off the earth, and this
is when the moths float like feathers
in the dark, and caterpillars start
to eat through the walls of the world.
Alison Angell received a M.Litt in Creative Writing from the University of St. Andrews, Scotland, and currently resides in Brooklyn, where she works as a marketing director in publishing. Her work has appeared in the Washington Square Review, Off the Coast, and Heartwood.