it floats,
a lure to the writer, the moth, the child
who would not look away.
A flame hovering above its wick, striving
toward the heights, only to flail against its anchor
in a struggle we interpret as a flicker.
Lightning bolts trapped
in the body of a bug blink
on, off, golden waves backlit against purple.
If only I could understand that drifting, lilting
language of light, I would be haunted by a love song
more beautiful than a whale’s theme–
I would learn why a flame is called a tongue.