He went home
to a candle light vigil.

There were tiny jars of light
and a picture that flickered
leaning against the leg
of a bench.

He was part of a group
holding other lights
and there were those
in hoodies or wraps or badly put-on makeup,
and they were were quiet,
or quietly crying
in the smelling cold.

Some were in the curb,
or on the road,
or leaning
on each other,
shoulder to shoulder,
arm on shoulder;
and it was foggy
and the streetlights
burned in the fog
like it had just rained.

The picture couldn't say another word
and there was no emotion left,
to stand, or sit, or kneel,
or pray,
there was just a village
stranded.

Life is an array of lights
that burn against pictures.
There are too many
smokey days.