Home > Uncategorized > this is how the small things begin to burn

this is how the small things begin to burn

this love is an old country, a gathered landscape
of sudden, infinite memories, the capture
of fallen laughter and half-tasted snow.

boundary lines are tested, decisions
thrown out for lack of evidence, jury
hung on a smile, a delicate knock
on an unknown door,
an almost reverent disruption 
of things kept under the tongue.

slick, like a song
made of glass, two hearts
wait, love conjured
as a magician’s trick –
secret and soul sawed in half, 
but not without meaning.

this is a house made
out of stars, a holy
recollection of those who wander,
the translucent belief
of a soft, solid prayer,
a heartbeat that catches fire,
an hour, vanished,
resting against the dark,
tripping into a sigh.

this is how summer
dresses for the dead, reaching back
toward spring, fingers brushing
the quiet wings of winter,
desire blooming, bright as a meadow,
lighting up the space
like a candle.

this is how the small things
begin to burn, suddenly
and too familiar, smoke
building like a smile, our names
quiet in each other’s throats,
caution caught up in kerosene:
imagine these hours
without fear, fingers
fast on borrowed corners, curves
at once wanting, at once remembered –

what else, but this?
what else, but us?
the building might catch fire,
but the scaffolding refuses to buckle:
this is your reason, descending
late into the afternoon, bare
and begging for relief.

the situation is delicate,
a want that mourns the world,
a love unable to be divided,
a promise unburied,
uncertain in no quarter.

we are terrible 
and tender, reuniting here
in the outskirts
of someone else’s gravity, thin air
as sinister as a lullaby, as sweet
as the steel of a stolen heart:
stand against yourself,
against all the universe
real and imagined –
and I will stand with you,
even knowing 
it will make a monster of us both.

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