A Flame For No One

Past the dark hedges, where the streetlights fail

to catch the curb, a sudden flicker

pulls my eye. A pane of glass, so frail,

behind it, just a single, steady sticker

of light. No other lamps. No movement felt.

Just this small hunger, pulling at the wick,

a slow surrender of its form, quite melt-

ing down. A ghost might read by it, quick

to catch a word, or just sit still and stare.

It burns. For what? For whom? The window's face

is black around it, a silent, hollow prayer,

a small, hot point in some forgotten space.