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.