Burning Poetry

  by Gary David


In the time it takes to write
a suicide note

years of daily labors turn
to a blizzard of ashes

the May wind disperses
out back near the shed.

Doused with a little gas, sheaves 
stacked in an old trunk

harumph to life
at the toss of a match.

While I turn over the smolder
with a rake, white

sheets blotted and scratched
with hand-written or typed lines

catch the light, flicker
into oblivion. Anticipating self-pity

staring at this burning
mirror, instead I find

nothing—a numbness
on my face, tingling

on my lips, but no echo
of poetry. Above 

in the black
locust trees anonymous birds

compete for spaces 
on a branch, sing their blue flames

through one more spring.
In the distance the indifferent

hum of a world
going places

raises its cold voice
another notch.