flame dances

I heard his voice rise from the electrical ether
"I am a man of constant sorrow," he sang,
and I knew just what he was talking about.
I'm a man who walks his daily path
of concrete & brown grass under clear blue skies.
I gather dust like a blanket
and seal my visions with cobweb glasses.
My heart races beneath a waxing moon —
for it is a tender magic hour,
early morning watches waiting on dawn.
I pick up stray images like candy
and wonder about my flaming fingertips
and why the candle's flame flickers and dances
when the mandolin plays.
These prayers refract through zirconium
into the waiting chambers of a distant valley;
my spirit walks somewhere in that valley,
gleaning stones, breathing clouds,
spelunking ancient tombs.
My spirit needs no map,
but I don't know where to go.