BURN

The world of tomorrow is even farther away
than we thought and the mottled greenish purple
of an old bruise. It doesn’t help to shut my eyes:
I can still hear gas hissing from shower heads,
still feel the sun like a leprous hand on my back.
I had promised myself a day-off today,
but the ceiling cameras will remember whether
I just remained standing here or moved.
And what if it’s true that the songs of birds
are released again when wood from the trees
in which they sang is burned? Friends,
let’s gather all the fallen branches for a fire.

©2008 Howie Good