Feb 20, 2013
BRUSH-FIRE You used to be a lung full of air, a red tongue but You are a cloud. Your name is a cloud. now I must conjure you out of sky— I breathe you in and heave you out like a long drag a cocaine voice I remember when we used to ruffle feathers, your white plumes and the flesh of my thighs I remember when you died. I buried you, neck bent pale without grieving Your blue fingers seemed to pulse blood still, but I was a swan. I held you under water 'til you drowned. I swallow. I imagine something sinewy like your hands, made intangible since I flushed you out. And now you are ground after kindling after brush-fire after flood— without even the memory of a start.
"Brush-Fire," K.E.B.