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: http://www.cerisepress.com
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