There exists
a very specific moment,
after a candle has been blown out
but before the final ember ceases
to glow,
during which it releases
a stream of drab and acrid smoke
that wraps itself in fine, pale tongues
around some invisible mold
suspended in the atmosphere,
liberating the imagination
to interpret its unpredictable form
until the wick, exhausted and spent,
burns out, leaving nothing
save a stiff and lifeless shell
that stands
like a miniscule charcoal crane
in a translucent pool of wax
about to cool and harden
into the opaque boundary
of a fixed and definite shape.