I strike matches until
my thumb is sulfur flare
black, rubbing until the fire
blows against the wall, a
projection of warmth, a wisp
of a film strip shown, the
flicker of souls susceptible
to whispers.  It is the hollowest
of sounds, the sea hiding
in a shell, the prayer mouthed
to the mouth of a glass. 
Snails under salt, salt for saints
until the book is empty.

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