by Beth Burrell

by Justin Pulice

The Candle

The liquefying sun is snuffed against
The skyline, and I’ve just barely used the day.
Meanwhile I know a part of me’s dispensed
For good, since something has to burn away.

So when I pour the puddled wax I am
Into the mould that spends each night in bed,
Another man, taxed from yesterday’s sum,
Is shaped with all the wants that held my head.

The difference then, like every day before,
Is only that there’s less of me as him.
And though the goals I have remain in there,
The time can’t stop. And hardly on a whim—

A sudden flare-up in the distance when
Another match is struck against horizon.

***

Threads

Another day undone as the sun’s sewn
Into the fringe that lines the sky, all cut
From earth, and adds more to the overgrown
And forever unfolding darkened pocket

That’s ample room to hold the night and every
Day to come. This space that’s vast enough
To keep the past and present on display
In the tiny seams that dead stars have left,

And in the stitches living ones still make,
Wears our sun like any other, and doesn’t
Note the threads of light it routinely takes.
But tethered to this sun, each strand that’s spent

In decorating the expanse is one
Less strand to fasten us in place. And from
Our jagged view on a small raveling stone,
The light that’s spent on us is only some.