The strange lit wick amidst
the larger seething seas of air
that send flames dancing, casting
little warm glows moving shadows
across the periphery of sight
in nights wondering for coming dawn
in this small circle of glass, melting
as a hand holds a rare familiarity

whether luminance bound in
machines, or the softer sense
of smoke rising in prayer
all were alone in their territories
missing the long rise toward almost
never quite morning

thick in jungled sounds around
the chanting of the village
a traveler guides the roads behind
planted for the heart of strangers

dense in green and human skin
this flicker on metal walls now
shine back upon what always was
itself larger than anticipation
and larger still in quiet rooms
where floods of light on squares
trickle outside like a distant stream