Votive
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3 Votive The wicks are electric in Iglesia San Dominic. Sear of filament in glass: tiny coal, a forty-watt star. None of your cathedral glitter, clutter of light on the paving, this grid of switches, little circuit timed to twenty-nine minutes and after, nothing whiskered with soot. No remnant but the afterburn, blue on the dark globes of your eyelids. Some things in life are not meant for such precision—the snug dovetail of your joined hands; the bent maple outside my window, aflame with leaf, its sheath of frost; flickered approximation of star—that dark voice, and our reciprocal lights. Trace elements 4 in smoke, fine blue strands that rise, streak the marbled mouth of a saint. ...
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