Gaspard the nightwalker


ever-bright, like the flames of this

land, refuse to land.


like fire, these rocks glint a surprise

of ground-fog. you, too, see


the split—watching it burn. grey

parts for air. the whoosh of sky


and a moon, more than half-closed,

gloat much—too much for comfort


or curtain. so what if I would

rather watch the fit from here?


see flame as the house, with no

idea of ceil or sealing, but for what


one has taught and housed with it.

this, my argument, do understand.


some call me the nightwalker,

because I cannot be seen—am,


essentially, invisible. I can set fire

to bodies, then flirt a feather back


into tempered symmetry. darling,

when I dare you back, I feel nothing


for you. walk out onto the air.


*previous version of this poem published in Ellipsis