because one candle burned down last night
gutting itself on its own light
while the other casts one more day loose
i suspect the timing of all pairs is off by a breath
a footstep
one caress.
still, the still night’s beauty
burns a million holes in the black sky,
all lucid affirmation and complicated constellations
dreamed every century by nomads
who find each other.
it is true that my faith in stars
and the symmetry of two
matches closely enough
a moment
the cast of an eye
and that candles are for settlers
whom I never really understood.
orphan poems 