Sitting II

My reflections are wax
and they burn all night
with a thin wick of desire.
On bright candle!
The flame does eat the dark air
and illuminates the repose of
the good things on my altar
that was washed out by
our sovereign star last noon.

But for doubt I am immortal,
but for love I am lost.
I bend to the grace of the senses,
to serve them a little while
as they open like nightshade,
flutter like sudden green moths,
and lift water like the moon.

I burned when I was a boy
and I grew with the twilight.
Now I am sitting quietly,
surrounded by a bell, dried sea urchins,
and a little buddha.
They seem alive in the flickering light.