CANDLE


The candle
Is under my hand

It feels good
On my skin

It soothes
My index finger

That pointing instrument
That extremity becomes
A dog

A pointer
That writes poems
With its tongue

A professional taster
A whimsical sampler

Floating up
Floating down
With the Pacific

The winter’s sun
Is as beautiful
As the blood
That it smears
On the clouds

Evidence
Of a day’s work
Proof of my love
Piercing the sky