has no formula; it’s a composition
of too many elements: oxygen
greed, lust, iron, despair, hope, water,
and minerals cells exchange with their
permeable membranes, envy, grief….
How many times have some cried silently
wanting the little candles to be more
than wax, fire, and smoke, that the small red cups
not be among so many, that this one
alone either break from heat, or its tongue
of flame utter a penance not just reflect its rosy light?