The Wick

beacons indiscriminate

go cry fire to the mountain

the granddaughter of the witches they couldn’t burn

in the chalk gaze of driftwood ravens

the smell of a ghost is anchor to balloon

rust bolt smiles on suicide engines

life writhes and swells around me

yet my light shines so high

diamond tears in a watery hourglass

a terminal thirst, only alone on the outside

fish leap from the splinters

stones become smoother