Because it was so hot you took off your shirt
but no one notices how the light came alive:
no one talking the the small room,
by the window, of this and that,
the war, the summer and the great heat
noticed how, with your shirt tossed aside,
you became a lamp. Except for the soft
and crazy moths who flew around you
and touched the flames of your skin in their play,
dizzying themselves about
your angular shoulders and deep heart
while in your casual drift you brushed them away.
I tell you I have noticed
the same thing happen when I write
late, on these sultry summer nights.
It seems my paper becomes their candle
an which a poem hardly makes a shadow;
they flock to it with gentle vehemence
and land upon it, as a thing of light.
Patrick Anderson, The Candles: Dorchester Street