bless his patience, would not give me laudanum today,
but has rigged up—ingenious trick—
a row of candles connected by a thread.
When one candle snuffs out, the next one spits
and crackles into life, then rises
with the hue of marigold, as if a field of oats
is waving in the winnowing wind, this flame
burning on and on, into the posthumous night.
© Andy Kissane 2011