Friday, January 22, 2016


Angels fly from candles like dreams fly
from wings. Just so you know I know I
know all these things. The crossword
puzzle of heart and mind leaves so much 
here but alone. I am the singular quandary
of my own blue heart. Let the light-surgeon
come in, I am ready for him now.
Somewhere in New York State I passed a
prison along the road  -  by a large intersection,
in a tiny nowhere town, where it seemed, just
as odd, that most people worked for the system.
All I saw was prison guards and uniforms with
trucks. Fences on the windows, and gun racks
overhead. So strange, in this land, how we
shackle up the living for the life that they 
deserve. Or seem to. Or need. Not much
to preserve. At every red light in that
tiny town, I swore I sensed someone
ready to break out. I wondered, in my
way, who's really in prison here.
There was a candle factory, and  -  yes  -  a
hospital, in which the light surgeon worked.
I sensed a magic something about his touch,
but all his patients were already dead.

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