Triin Paja Luna Moth I carry your words as river-water in clay bowls. you do not drink. you touch my letter as if it were a perfumed neck while the lovers continue to disintegrate                                           like the moon at dawn— when you called me a silver box, you meant lover, the moon, the moon these words in which I cannot even        touch your ghost. do you know what silence does to a body? it grows into a Luna moth that has no mouth      and lives for a single week— ~ there is your silhouette on a train to Saint Petersburg.                 the windows to you are what windows are to birds. how you see the sky the way a beached whale                                           sees the ocean: a fata morgana. to arrive anywhere is to forget. I stand by the mint-green sea waiting, a connoisseur of want. the sky wet with stars. if we wait long enough, everything will become letters or stars.