An encircled flame the colour of descent
And smelling like pared-down wine, seeks
To nourish all that is devoid of winter warmth. All
But the moth.
The moth is an unfinished creature. A wingless beast
At first, rapidly recursing into primitive
Appeal, then disappearing as an inkblot
On the face of time itself. It is birthed
Of night’s longest hour, the lonely eclipse between
Fissure-laid dawn and the screaming darkness beyond.
When it flies willingly into the nascent arms of death; when,
With the fervour of grass-gilded wind, it tries
To penetrate the glass, it will fail. The moth
Is fed on paper dreams.