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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.