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The Smell of Things Burning
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The Letters I stand, clothed in the skin of clean motive
My hair flowed easy with the wind but my body became
still as cement and
I took it in through my nostrils and let it pierce my lungs and
let it out again
There were few words that meant anything here.
It wasn't the poetry.
It was the torture of reading right through you.
I gave your prized letter to unaffected eyes and those
eyes did not like you
It's rope and fire from now on. Thread by thread
thread by thread by thread by thread,
til
a
cinge snap
poof fray and a
congradulatory phone call make
it to your frozen ears
