Revisionist Poetry – Out of Sight, Out of Mind?, v.2

The flames rise and begin to dance
on fresh kindling—thin, obedient tongues.

Sadness eats the space happiness left;
thoughts hold the matches.

From wood to coal, from coal to ash—
the slow machinery of the night.

Expectations burn like paper money,
joy folded and scorched into denial.

Flames leap into open air, drink the wind;
they take the smell of what I kept.

Old grief pins itself to the shelves, turning brittle,
gnawing at photographs and the hem of a sleeve.

Flame and thought lift—out of sight—
but ash scores the palms I thought could forget.