Friday, February 01, 2008


Some fire that would show the moth
how to feel, or at least a hope,

some spark, perhaps, beginning
inside a mute’s mouth--

a man’s up in smoke
dream to become a voiceover.

It’s a film I once saw, or meant
to see, the audience given rocks

to elect the end--
pebbles that burned in our hands,

carrying the cold lips
of an echo in the stone.