It's Still Life

Boy and the Candle

he bends above the hour

as if darkness were something fragile
that could be opened by hand.

the candle is not large,

yet gathers the whole room
to itself —

a small white throat of fire.

and the boy, eyelid and cheekbone,

leans close enough
to borrow its breathing.

light climbs his face
like thought:

tender, uncertain, necessary.

around him,
the dark does not retreat.

it listens.

even silence has a pulse —

blue at the wick,
gold in his skin.