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.
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