The flit-moth, distracted
A metropolis of lights
Delights
So many to tempt
Too many to taste
Lay waste
Ravished in an hour
Left to wilt
These cities, charred skeletal
A winter, nuclear, for fifty years
Ash rain to fall what followed
Our first chemical burn.
And the others? All those others
Feed and flicker by the lick of light
Of a low wick flame
Kissing the peeling walls
Tentative, exploratory
Tender kisses, each for a streak
Of cracked wall paint and plaster
A wrinkle of character
For these observing walls
Watching all, feeling keenly
Every cry and whisper
Surprises them.
Every flit-moth born - by the day
Winding their way through the windowpane
Attracted by - their delight
The swinging bulb light
Single strung, wire to ceiling
Surprised. Why?
For every temporary resident of this room
Derives their wonder
(That old, familiar feeling)
As if it was theirs alone
To feel for the first time.
New - and never known again.
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