WEBVTT

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OK, this one, and
then I'll finish up.

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What did it matter
their names were flames?

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It is nice to be dead
like this from grace.

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Glass door cracked
open for a breeze.

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Crows unrolling
October's paper curtain.

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A scroll across the meadows,
lunar slopes for off season,

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aeriform alphabets.

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I want to lie down
in the road and read

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the gold-fringed leaves
of an autumn diction,

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yet stand between my
two selves, paralyzed.

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Accounting to do,
cooking, and email.

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Must write the girls to
thank them for the wine,

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study the dictionary of angels.

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What does it matter?

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Their names are flames,
and my mind hurts all night

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terrorizing its survivors.

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Each thief of thought a phantom
word whose oculi stalk me

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through every eye.

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The crush of people at the
departure terminal pleading

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to their gods for the ship that
never comes still haunts me.

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Stripped of their
belongings, they climbed.

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Limb over limb skywards.

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The words on their
tongues no nearer

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the stars or the circling birds.

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A lighthouse beacon
flashes through my window.

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The end for some is
the body no longer

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being burdened to believe.

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For me, this is where I begin.

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I take up my pen in
the frigid house.

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A pile of feathered
bones at the door.

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Last year's bears asleep
beneath the floorboards.

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