Fire in the Hills

I'm sure you had a heart,
way back then, which is now
an empty bottle, a quiet dog
curled in its corner, the depth
of a fortune cookie note.

Decomposition. Of love. Still
tied with light blue yarn to
your childhood. Light blue,
the color for a newborn boy.
How sad and unpredictable.

Later, in the night, I watch
the fires in the hills. Terribly
consuming what took years to build.

1 comment:

Gerry Boyd said...

great elegiac sensibility happening here. bravo!