can't hold a candle to his flickering image

How could I lose sight of him? I only know that my eyes followed him as far
as possible, till my gaze wandered over the horizon's brink, where insight and
blindness alike are insufficient. When I go for a walk in the afternoon to mail
letters, avoiding my own eyes in windows or water, I frequently have the feel-
ing I'm just about to see him. When I get into bed at night, all bundled up, the
bedclothes exhale a whiff reminiscent of him, though he's never set food in
this room. Tonight I click off the light and lie on my back, my hands behind
my head as though I were lying in wet grass, waiting for rabbits and deer to
leap over me, or something heavier to puncture my stomach with its hoof. I
wait with my eyes to adjust to the darkness, then for the night birds to begin
sounding off. I think about him for what seems like a long time, and about
how sad it is that what I jot down daily, or mull over in the walled chamber
behind my eyes, can't hold a candle to his flickering image, can't show me
some fresh vision of him, or explain why I constantly feel, as I drift off, that
he's watching me.

[Amy Gerstler {1956- }, 'Approach', from Bitter Angel]

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