Knowing which trick ( leaf ) fire will apply, the string of
twig-switch to fern-feather stripped tinder spark. Lay
underneath, as stone. Cool moss’ damp cavernous body
craving tin rooftop’s ping. Raindrops patter-hand greeny
underneath : outer layers scab-soften to startled birch.
Shy shedding of self. Then white-bark, starling-scatter
whisp of voice long-settled on shoulders. Skin, translucent
as embers. This, delicate as ashes with all destruction behind.
It’s one of those knowing missives, wind rising or letters transferred,
Tuesday poem #653 : Chris Johnson : screaming kids
20 hours ago
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