Tea Bow

When dusk was the tea candle interrupting a rain-soaked page of sight, I read it inside a subway train one warm Manhattan night. I sat and watched it haunting me, with light born through the window. It glimmered inches beneath my throat, it floated golden brown, endowing the proportions of a saint on all the frame fallen round me. It was cosmic vision of eternity, but still no saint lives here, it was a ray of light of cheer, the wax of this vision tearing own ears off, a puppet born of silence, and yet a peace can be said to have been seen there, there in that glowing reflection. It was a warm heron flickering blue flame deep within that cave of thundering trains, with hegemony of lace, with concordance of tripes, it follows noone now.