Burning purposelessly, a quick light
Flickers near the center of the room
Disclosing in contour and in texture
A deep crimson, all-obscuring veil.
It is as if the light is reaching out
Its tongue, communicating with the ends
Of things and then reentering the halls
And doors of tears I sometimes call my eyes.
Suddenly, a sharp spark of white
Darts in arches across; I perceive
Two wings as graphemes painted on the dark.
Toward the flame a looping, cyclic language
Moves, transgressing my sight's narrative
To be consumed by its desired light.
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