The Burn

Yes, we've met before. I know we kissed some years ago.

I started walking by myself, but soon enough you showed.

A journey is a pinch of time, a dash from here to there.

It's destiny that generates the fantasies of where,

Fantastical, fanatical, destinies of air.

I needed a companion then, three-legged race I'd fall,

So I leaned upon an andiron. I wasn't wise at all.

The burn was quick and small.

The heat, the hot, the hell, the rot, the poet in the grass—

The portmanteau lay open like a shadowbox of glass.