Mark Heathcote

O what will—come!
of the hammering, chiseling, light of death?
when each wood shaving petal has fallen
when the body of the lamp; has no more breath…
To push-out; oils hot-air! …at what is, remaining…

What will become of that listless tree moth?
When; the sun shrivels-up, 'on that mosquito dusk'.
Whose blood shall then clot against; the cheesecloth?
for him who is asking for nothing, but taking, everything…