when the wick
sends up heat,
does it know where
it rises,
or which shadow
it casts on the
blankness of
the wall-
a flicker to the
edge of the
known, a praise
like the voyager-

where is the glory
in the end of a
prayer, the smolder
of the votive?
a footstep's motion
is a golden letter
imprinted on the
earth. the beauty
of a song in the
weakness when
notes quiver,

a fact dies
a newsprint death.
there is no end to
covenants without
death, as deep as
space where sun seems
like a candle from,
vibrant darkness of a
paper to write
light upon, if only
to be smothered by
unknown.