fluttering moths devour feathery soft desire -
one day you'll have lost them,
to fire-stained blossoms (they've been watched,
as they dim, with gold-rimmed eyes).
The blue flame holds dear to its despise.

Once dust has settled;
once shadows are again still;
will we always flicker? Octaves rise
against us, and their own will
(every soprano has her limits).

We breathe cool air from windows,
we spill wax upon our fingers,
we grow dim (we malinger):
yet we never seem to die.