I finally lit your old Dietz lantern.
Its champagne halo butterfly-kissed the ceiling.
Cotton wick like sycamore, its roots
were veined, kerosene-coursed and beating.
Our own loss-prevention.
No longer nailed to a railway car, branch-lashed or doused by rain,
it is my pharos. Like Christmas lights fleeced with snow,
gleaming smoky and unfelled.
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