JANUARY 14



When we built the first pyre
we stood back and watched
as we set it ablaze
like that abandoned farmhouse
engulfed in flames
upstate, in the woods
we ran as we heard the sirens
fearing we’d bear the blame
for the arson
but once our laces detangled
you ran ahead of me
as far as you could
without looking back
I sat there holding the fire
in my bare hands
downgraded to a pile of pallets
spent nails falling into the embers
I burned on alone
summer passed, then the fall
shrinking again to a campfire
surrounded by wet foliage
heavy hanging branches
yet enough to keep my core
protected and dry with ideas 
holidays crash thru, the new year
now a pile of kindling 
struggling against the elements
to stay alit but faltering 
I think about fuel
what new fires burn 
paper, paintings, gasoline
moped tires, fresh firewood
staring now at a crossed pair
of barely lit wooden matches
on a pile of wet fallen leaves
a new set of keys
in my clenched fist, relaxing
to an intact farmhouse
somewhere in upstate
within it awaits a swept 
and clean hearth



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