Quick flame and quicker lives. Ha ha. Get it?
The edges bifurcate like perdition –
a series of choices, as you read it,
danced past your eyes as the last division:
So you're stuck, on a flame in a wax lake,
blue like the depths of the undreamt ocean,
new as not new, tame as not cultured; take
your solace in that you will live again:
Perspective and color, the first things to go;
they twist in the breeze as they fade away,
as they fade towards the line, fade like fresh snow
besmirched by warm fluid; You stay away:
The quick and the dead – time runs as in laps;
you breathe the salt air, you smile, you collapse.