by temperament he loved beginnings. i read that in herbert liebowitz's fabricating lives about william carlos williams. it was good for poems, but his autobiography is all fits and starts. every body is an autobiography. re-written daily. the body could tell the whole story, but memory is fickle in the mind. moth-eaten. full of holes. last night i dreamed of white moths, beautiful apart from the idea that they had eaten the stuff of my waking, the stuff i wear, going about with holes, wearing out. we are offerings to moths. we don't choose what other lives we go into. we're chosen, swallowed, licked, mandibled slowly by the soft mouths of moths, recalling, the flickering white wings, the holes of light, we see the holes, slowly, partially awakening, see the holes we made in dreams.