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1974. An old man holds a votive candle at the Polish-
Ukrainian border. An ancient wax figure. His skin, a yellow
paraffin. He came to Poland to get the candle for his grave.
The religious votives are unattainable under the regime in
Ukraine. The candle, a prayer clasped in his hands. He
carries the unspoken Resurrection. Kitchen and the
Apocalypse. The officer pulls the candle out of his hand and
tosses it into the garbage can. Darkness, his candle. The
dogwoods grow in silence. Who is the burning man? How
can you know a candle from a moth? What illness springs
from a lost place? Trees clasp their fiery hands. I smuggle a
smoke film, ghosting. I want to carry him to the Mother of
Exiles. To her beacon-hand, a glowing candle. Your
huddled masses yearning to breathe free. She lifts her
candle beside the golden door. A polycandela. A drumming
station. The intensity of the instance burns. A fire rises
above his hands.