Friday, March 16, 2007


Wound through all the rooms, abrupt at ceiling low
a hound of smoke like mist resumes to flow and seek
our climbing eyes also seek and the smoke breaks the white of walls
complaining in their stern way
I'd rather keep the smoke than disperse it
to choke in the warm air beneath it
despite this urgent thrust & I want the cold in my room
under me, my spreading need needs be contained
A jar of ice and this firefly dies.


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