Kriegspiel
by Jared Carter
Now comes the pilgrim moth, with its dark wings,
searching across the screen. A candleflame—
casting soft shadows at the heart of things
unheeded—stands within a shifting ring
of light. The boards are ready for the game.
Now comes the pilgrim moth. With its dark wings,
it makes a move that reaches in to sting
and stroke, the way a slim white cane,
casting soft shadows at the heart of things,
taps in the stillness. A presence beckoning
beyond the screen acknowledges this claim.
Now comes the pilgrim moth, with its dark wings,
into the trembling room, still reckoning
that tactic hidden deep within the frame,
casting soft shadows. At the heart of things
the candle waits unmoved. A shining spring,
immeasurably coiled, it takes no aim.
Now comes the pilgrim moth with its dark wings
casting soft shadows at the heart of things.