In the valley of candles, not only one

view is harvested.

Sea changes too bright for coordinates

flicker & throw around the smoke of

place.

A place is never truly known apart from

places--their spirit passes a cup.

A place is as precious as The Self, which it

fully identifies with thru preservation.

The Self is fixed to place, a place is fixed

to The Self--in honor.

Of fixed transcience.

Home can be a strange place, a strange

place can be home--the fare of place is

fully paid.

Go freely to become remote from where

you were, which is still where you are--

who you Are.

The spirit of place passes its cup, drink

in the view.

What do you see in the valley of candles?

Perhaps a killer taking tea.