The tender danger in my eyes seeks your flame;
I am afraid to touch you; I fear to look too long,
for I would put my own eyes out –
There is too much danger in beauty. Where
is the destiny in fire, that calls me
like a sacrificial moth? My wings of searing soul
have become powder. Only the wind makes me hover,
at your bed, by your side, over your shoulder...
I dare not trust the wind, it breathes too hard;
I dare not trust the hot exhalation torn
from your mouth during lovemaking;
when ashes are blown away, there remains nothing
but a dry husk of an exoskeleton,
inching feebly to the light. You burn me,
my love burns me, I live in constant fear of immolation.