THAT WHICH DRAWS THE MOTH
That which draws the moth to the flame is not
The light but the overwhelming omen, darkness,
In which obliteration blind men seek to escape,
To see the haloed streetlamp dreaming
Through a fog when cataracts diffuse sight
As searching for the invisible passenger
Who has departed memory
The hearse of darkness hides its curtained cargo.
Yet observe the cold exhaust, smoke and steam,
Engine underneath whose voice is subterfuge,
It is waiting on the edge of now,
A sign, an augury of endings come to all of us,
Such opaque glass hides the dreadful truth inside.
Only know that as this effacing mist embraces edges
The clarity of thoughts dissipate and go
And men are swallowed by forgetfulness,
Lines rubbed out beneath the black anonymity of snow.