In
the crouching darkness she gathers
like
an urgent flock of moths demanding a candle-light.
His
body whitely stirs, so precious in its beckoning.
A
match is struck,
she
hurls herself into the soft wax, reaching deeply
(how
deeply can they reach and why is it important to?, he wonders).
They
seek to bring each other to one containable dimension
in
a mutual herbarium,
in
an ecstasy of flattening
only
love can perform.
In
the wise dawn there are moths
moulded
in a chaos of tortured wax.
It
is a miracle she and he continue to flutter
demand
light in the empty corners of themselves,
but
only there -
and
there is no other wisdom at dawn
Searching
is less complete than having, surely.
Surely?
And is it completeness they seek to have?
(she
wonders at the easy attainment of inscrutable desire).
Despite
an entry, the sphinx remains a monster of history
the
vistor cannot share.
Separate
in their exhausted possession
they
rise for something else already
as
if something else
will
bring them relief.
