Sunday, October 13, 2013


Start with the last wisp of smoke
Curling out of the soused fire
Of thoughts you burned for the world.
It's a pretty twist, that smudge
Vanishing in the flash flood
Mud and wreckage that retreats
Back down the banks of the wash.

You'd never quite hoped for more.
Wild fantasies aren't quite hopes,
And neither were your panics
You might burn the forest down.
It's pretty, prettiest now
It's no more than the smell
Of dry ash in your damp palm.

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