moth

I wandered like the homeless moth
from wool to woolen
clothes to cloth
flying nearer every time
mysterious fires
through aimless rhyme
only to feel the hot
too hot,
only to taste the taste of rot
(and not
my nourishment)


senseless I, the moth
tired of wool
worn from cloth
charred by flames
and famished still
fell at your feet
(to sleep)


and backwards like the sun dropped-up
awoke to taste a brimming cup
denied the moth my sleep had slain
and lapped your wine
a Worm, unfeigned
(sublime)