Indivisible strands or strings
Split as thin as one could split a thing
Invisible on the lap of Dog
The thread which digested the Ghost of her.
Paler than palace walls
Dryer than dream recalling- calls
The moth, burnt by flamed fidelity
Applauds with well-worn and whitened wings
The end of the symphony.
“Too early” some other moths froth
Alas, trying is forswearing for the star-crossed and crass.
Little-known night blooming figs
Both quite the same, though one wears a wig
And when eaten, hottened by the sun
Fig seeds unswallowed - just as bullets become to a gun,
And still a strand of hair, stray in the heat-
One end on the tongue, the other at the feet.