"Moth to Flame"


By jove, the turning compartments of living and spacing one’s being in time --
a claustrophobic attachment of alphabets to the flaming, freeing light of sun.

Around and on petals arduously flowering, a rowdy snowflake of possibility
assembling upon your nose -- a cushion to endure the torrential stream of
    human blows...

An open wind, a dusting, a dirty centerpiece and living room in disarray,
a phony sound to the microwave and industry abuzz near kitchenware,
    feeling anything...

    May I kindly confuse you?

Following nothing and listening in between, we know when to beware
and when to be there, a slow hollowing, a fighting desperate claim on
    the orange flame.