candle-hours

the small candle-nub hours
are the dark ones, where
all around in dark houses
sleep the people
yet I am awake
lights lit
breathless for the gift
of the new day

in a head that teems
with plans and schemes,
infected by the dark
clouds of time past -
there is no release from the
intimate road that knew
our feet - if only

the great angel with its
colossal wings spanning the
girth of universes
would teach me how to
fly, hover just above
the painful ground:
my bone, my cry

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