Ten fifty-five. Candlemas. The glass case that nearly blinded bare twigs vaporizes into a jillion tiny prisms refracting self concealing doubt checking sight. Ten fifty-five. My own frost-fingered faith gropes past noon toward three—the veil will rip sight return Scrabbling from this uncertain sepulchre matchbox fingers scrape rough stone Ignite hot hot hot. They burn; how can I extinguish another’s light?
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