the last time I tried to find poetry in burning, I lost my neighbor in a house fire. now I'm all char and no coal—
tracing the future in the snow with a stick
while triangulating the past in a woodstove; what else
can I do, in this world that was designed not to matter.
outside, there is a snowfall that could touch the bone
but I don't burn for warmth:
when the relics all turn black
even a house fire
won't save us
and we'll freeze
like one big family portrait.