pm poetry

Chest of moths and eyes of storm,
fluttering and wailing
when the quiet prevails.
I’m a patchwork of earth,
of the charged and the frail.
What are you in the still?
Chest of sun and eyes of sea,
burning and churning-
stitched depths and fresh heat?
Or maybe,
chest of moon and eyes of
empty windows
glassy and vacant-
reflective and phasic?