Let seep from me
the rivulets
from down my widow’s peak.

Do caged birds dream
of taking flight
long after their wings
have been snipped?

Never did I hope
to have dinner with a ghost,
lay with vapor in a mirage.

Death, like time proceeding
is assured, yet still
I harbor this match unstruck,
hide a candle in my chest.

I will a wick to sprout.