Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Day # 25 …

Orange swirling flame of days,
sizzle like moth wings,
crackle after the blazing dies.
So much of any year is flammable,   
only the things I didn’t do 
transparent scarlet paper,
lists of vegetables, partial poems.   
Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   
Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   
an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.  
Letters swallow themselves in seconds.  
Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,
I begin again with the smallest numbers.
so little is a stone.
marry the air.

constructed from :  Burning the Old Year

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