Snubbed
The wick cries its last beat, and then silence.
Hungry sky-light grey-washes the suddenly
Empty pocket room.
I am tiny and panicking-
“Candles, candles
I need more candles to resuscitate
The brittle, dried-wax globule, that translucent residue,
Victim of your search-light.”
But now the fire-flies arrest and I
Am taken to somewhere concrete
With swastika architecture; Wearing
Your heart on my sleeve and collapsing
At its drum;
Human skin drum.
I am guilty. Burning
Wax hardens at my eyelids, perhaps
You could see a blown kiss of carbon.
No.
Then I am as guilty as the blood-pumping bubble
Buried in our garden.
Page(s) 171
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