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