at dawn, commence
to their wavering—
long overdue
in disappearing, but
not yet gone—
who am I
to keep my eyes fixed
on their glimmering,
wishing on their embers
(every wobbly
last vapor)
only that they
could keep their
lucky arms unfurled?
I am not the kind
who would starve
in a forest
just to spare
the wild and brilliant
plumage of its birds;
so why would I impose
such a stagnant thing
as beauty
on the strange
and mercurial soul
of this world?
