Document

To expand upon the previous clutch of lines (Conservatory
Rain):
I live with four others.
Our situation is desperate.
We have moved now, slowly, and
we live next door to Brunswick Physiotherapists.
That's how it is. I still go mothing.

My wife has made us each
a room within a room. From shoeboxes.
Doll's rooms. Mine's a study,
with drawers made from matchboxes.
I moth for hours before it, kneeling
if one of the others has borrowed my chair
to address a blown bulb

(Blown bulbs are no good. No moths.)

At night I crawl out onto the roof
and moth again. I imagine I am
a world-renowned expert on mothing.

I am always doing it. I am always busy.
I am nobody's agent - the map of the world
on my wall is my own. I've plans for it
stowed in the matchbox drawers of my study
I stay away from the parliament of mirrors
and the moths come:
raven moths, soot moths, moon moths,
mountain moths, bird moths, goon moths,
like carousels of bonfire ash they come
to the carnival of lamps and gently singed wing