Does the wild
moth care where the flames flicker,
naked, or
within the baubles of glass,
flaunted at
the points of wicks and brass,
or is mud kinder? cleaner and quicker?
Some wild
tale’s heard in the depths of childhood:
how peace and
stillness stick to paths of light,
how plenty
comes on tiptoes in the night,
and a single
wick can make or break the good.
Is it that
simple? does it signify
that singed-winged
wild moths are of no account?
that peace
and plenty finally amount
to glass and
brass and things that cannot fly?
