The Flammable Hours

Unexpected, blooming in the night,
a remembered declension, wind
in the backyard throbbing with moonlight.

Powers will insist we cannot use memory
so lavishly, and crickets, weathers —
they will be reasonable.

Dear apparition,
how will I reach you with reason
when so much is cycling, wordless,

necessity we did not deny
or understand. An afternoon
among humble houses, their sidewalk gardens,

I blacken at edges
but the guts of my heart
blaze with cobalt and gold.

Printed from Cerise Press:

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