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Poem

By Scoplaw

I Burn Her Letters in an old tin bucket labeled, Flint's High Quality Axle Grease,and work my way througha box of blue-tipped kitchen matchesand six Newcastles.  It does no good. The 22 pager this time goes first, hesitant, then surprisingly flash flame then shrinking gray ash.A bare kiss - diner-greased lips smear a postcard writ: I love you, have missed you. An index card, purple ink in her looping hand: Come see me - soon! which I once foundtucked under my wiper blades.  The one which held a snip of hair: perfume to stink-thin smoke.Stubs for The Magic Flute. A Belfast photograph:against a near black sky, church spires gleam stone warmand they and her pout bubble and char.  Our past is not untied by drinkor foolishness or fiery death...continue to full post

Full post as published by Scoplaw on January 01, 2008 (boomark / email).