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