Page O' Poems  

    The Campfire And The Paperback

I can manage almost a line per page
through the smoke,
page by curling page,
as if flames cared about chronology.

"...she laughed at his sad attempt to..."
"...but wasn't that how it always..."
"...He reached out for..."
"...Why can't you..."
"...She cried all night..."

Each page crumples away
into a bloated black rose
or a shiny dark fungus
and the edges flash orange
like electric fireflies.

There will be no words left
tomorrow
only dawn's soft white ashes.

--Z.T., 2 Jan 2000

Back