Each time day returns to its sun
to forget the windows we opened
in it, I see the past minus peace
equals me, plus war you.
I stab a candle down through one hand,
an icicle through the other,
then flail them about,
restaging the stale battle of doubt
with faith, whim against bone.
Guess who always wins. Imagine
a color so true every prism
it passes through melts—
Because hasn’t your voice
running mine, cindered this?