He lingers to the left then for years and more;

She satisfies herself with seconds to the right and even less,

A glance or two at captive lantern lights and sparks addressed

To moths who do not know the reason for

Their fascination nor her motives, nor what sweet dangers lay

In this or that confection spread between days and weeks with little time

To verify the obvious–candles all but disappear

in sunlight and words that rhyme
With fire usually point the way to fatuous infection,

the pox of every yesterday,

And in the convalescence of the early dawn,

her doubts evaporate like mists of myrrh she’s quite forgot

And dissipate while she airs the room as if the purpose

in his witness were merely a balm for pain–

All her earthbound joys share the momentary contents
of a rural mailbox, shelter in the rain

For those who still receive their letters with the circulars. Caught

In fantasies defined in galaxies that disappear at sunrise

there remains the death knell of worlds,

The casuistries of nouns and adjectives

that sue for peace beyond the pale of words.