Bedroom Candle, Venice Beach

What light do we allow to shine?

Only that bright sun who'll

consume us when she croaks?

Our own private fireball, one of trillions,

neither too wimpy nor

too monstrous?

Oh burning ball, did you knowingly

give power to those

self-invented creatures,

the plants, and make them

grow and die and

secretly hold light in wax?

Now a single candle burns

in my cocoon by Venice Beach,

a golden spore for a home, an

echo of our good-enough fireball,

and light is neither

allowed nor forbidden.

Souls can’t help but soul.

Shards of the sun

burn as you burn, as I burn,

as enemies burn,

and light up my wall with

shadows of lovemaking,

or a lady flicking through screens,

or a mosquito’s jaunty dance,

or a moth hell-bent on suicide.