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Every Night My Little Song

It begins like a little song when every night I build this fire:

Crumple up the junk mail. Rip off some cardboard.

Crisscross it with kindling, small sticks first.


When I strike up the match it lights the second time.

Ink and meaningless words burn. Was I ready to let go of all that?

In the conflagration the weight of its nothingness lifts up in smoke.


Up, up and up it goes...


As a hot and airy spirit informs my arms and face, 

a burst of sparkling yellows entertains my eyes.

I feed the inferno griefs and sorrows

Place my anger in the wood I heave on top


And it consumes my little song.


I close the door and watch, hearing snaps and carryings on.

Agreements and disagreements moving along.

Flaming tongues twanging the cold stove. Difficult harmonies.

A maelstrom of dissonance.


I release a long sigh,


like a vocal riff against a melodic hiss.

Happy for the end of the day, I allow my forgotten dreams

to take up my little song and carry on this tune,

which lulls me off to sleep.

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