captured at last by light, a glowing wreath



words
have demands

a caterwauling
need to be answered;
i have been wringing through
this word capture to discover
the mouths of its motives

since by now in this late & unsure hour
i am holding the admission of my surrender
like a wet cloth to the dust.


i remember the way light glowered from our high window
on a flicker of winter refugee moths
in the dust mote beams

and oh how they startled against the window
in their fragile disregard.


it will be crucial, it will be
inevitable, the insulating crush,
two bodies and voices
erasing themselves in darkness.

it captures me so easily, neatly.

capture. although my hands
are wholly uncomparable to moths
i am still stunned by it,
stilled by it,

this new windowsill existence
where i press and press against the light
only to limn each new silence with silence.





May 2002 © Jesse B. Castaldi