'On That Mosquito Dusk' Poem by Mark Heathcote

O what will—come
of the hammering, chiselling, the 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 a cheesecloth?
For him who is asking for nothing, but taking, everything