None of it was good enough.
So you see, here, admittedly,
I understand the fire, a self-starter,
it makes decent fuel
the words work better than well.
It means I too- must end this way,
plain as day, Cremation
and yet
Fire scares me honestly.
It may be a miserable moment,
the next page, the new leaf, the blank slate-
Wait-never mind-what was said-dead-again.
Each time it becomes easier to name the wrong noun,
confound even myself, crosswords no longer help.
In other words
I shall not say,
See me
and I will match you.
I am simply sulphuring,
reeking with green steam.
Saturated, and I am too porous for this
laughing at my whole self,
the incompetence I relied upon
and moments reborn
into better than imaginable-Memory.
Pretty-
All ways worth the weight in white.
Angels giggle at these simmering sounds
mistaken for a narrow fellow in the grass
making coils warm,
it was all the write words
fuming in the sun
without a bone to burn or pick
the ice ages will do the rest.
Painting By McCord, George Herbert, 1848-1909 (artist); L. Prang & Co. (publisher) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.