My brand-new desk-lamp draws them up three flights;
they’re foiled against ebony window panes.

Now four show off their bellies’ egg whites –
these night maggots pulled in by light’s taut chains.

Triangular brown-paper wings make capes
behind the eyes that, in full beam, glow red.

They crawl the glass, autumnal leaf-like shapes,
then plunge and flutter; till they re-embed

belaying-pins – tight on their pitch again.
What pleasures them must quite as much torment.

Beyond, head-lit and twinkle-tailed, a plane
slow curves its auto-piloted descent:

to passengers the town’s decked-out extent
invites their wonder at the starred mundane.

                                                The Interpreter’s House (49)
Poem 7