~We Have Loved
Our Petty Things~
a bed is just a bed, mattress and down
and steel coiled
wraparound, patient in the night, the suffocation
of fabric stretched
near to unweaving thread
then broken and burned in a late-night trash fire
behind the house two
doors down, the heat that fills the dusks with
bittersmelling smoke
scattered to the sky.
where all things probably best left unconsidered
are disposed
undeciphered, for to burn a memory requires nothing beyond
the destruction of
all such hardspare forms.
No comments:
Post a Comment