tinderbox, dale winslow, poetry, neopoiesis press


I ignite, like the drunkard’s match,
in exhausted alleyway at 2 a.m.
Burn my fingers on this fire
that strikes in hours deaf and blind.

I ignite, like winter kindling,
quickly and brightly as heavy scented cedar.
Rush of sap to open air, needle-rich,
heady release of earth and breath.

I burn, like birch bark,
written with welted words,
living pages of white set to flame,
these lines, smoke-signal reflections.
I burn,
and all that was, dissipates.

I burn, like ancient, peat bog fires,
memory, coiling and uncoiling,
a cryptic dance over moors.
I burn,
covering the moon with smoldering fingers.

I ignite.
I burn.
I ignite.



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