they are candles.
low lights in the window.
in the shade.
burning away what wax
is left
in a strange place,
not home. they are
gathered like
a flock of wingless
birds together,
around the shimmering
pool or squared light,
the sound up, the channel
never changed,
the lunch being cooked
in the other room,
the few visitors,
looking at their watches
after signing in.
a flicker of eyes when
the doorbell rings.
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