myopia and the candle

flame and they are the pale moths come.

bold from the dark and

determined craving,

and with singular purpose

pushing. they are pushing toward lightness,
as shamelessly

as the moon pulls the skirts of the sea,

unafraid, and offering nothing

but their fragility--

this is the ecstatic cataclysm

of want. to capture bright and heat,

and the awful flailing against its hot edge,

and this is the sound of their smouldering.

this is the scent of their singe.