Small fires

This entry is part 8 of 19 in the series Morning Porch Poems: Spring 2015

In the middle of a great sea
of people I want to recede
into the flickering of one
cellophane-colored flame.

*

The amber in a faceted glass
throws off light: alternately it sings
of ash and dusk-skinned fruit. What
were you saying again about clarity?

*

When the doors opened, I hailed you
by name. As you turned, the frames
of your glasses snagged random
filaments of neon.

*

Do you have an extra coin? Time
is that period between markers,
is still what ticks between
the increments we’ve paid for.

 

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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