Mist of a
Came swirling through July,
Compelled by unseen alphabets
That spelled out how to die
In heaps below the heartless glare
Of supermarket lights,
In drifts that slicked the bridges where
The swarms filled pearly nights
And left white ribbons on the tar
Like salt-stains on a beach;
And mobbed the headlights of my car —
So many moons to reach!
Cold orbs shook off a scaly snow
With nonpareils of jet
For eyes, fixed on the Alpine glow
Through one last minuet
Beneath a streetlight — where each ray
Struck twenty petal hues
Borne off in gutters to the bay,
And on the soles of shoes.
He lusted after fire —
That oblivious embrace —
But light can be a liar,
And, denied its final grace,
He beat against the bitter glass,
A dance of vanity
Concluded on the dewy grass —
And then, the moth was free.
© 2008 by Ellin
Anderson. All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be copied or used in any way
without written permission from the author.