He doesn’t deign to give his light
     By spirit, wax or oil
     Instead a thing that hides from sight
     Comes coursing through his coil

     Suspended in a house of glass
     Between his earth and sky
     A vacuum may let him last
     But may not meet the eye

     As if by time or happenstance
     Though not by much surprise
     A hissing thing eludes the glance
     To find its way inside

     The withered coil is waning dim
     Whose ashes are assigned
     To meet a gloom awaiting him
     Until it meets the eye


revised 11-18-02

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