sketch 2

carbon ribbons dance above the
wick, flame
burns impurities and waxy roots
hyperextended plant themselves

into the tabletop.
reading the poetry of hours in the spilt
and melted patience--such a surface
betrays time's accurate language.

numbers duck under thin silver twins,
paced by the metronome tick, a face
tries
to hide in embarrassment.

the stroke of an hour,
the feel of bloodrushing the funnel,
thoughts spillover and out,
lost and largely ignored.

with the death of oxygen
all the flames will flicker and
find themselves ghosted in the
folds of dead candle clouds
dispersing into currents of
ambivalent airspace.