Rogue Sparks

Coming this way is cigarette ember,

put out on metal

receptacle ridge, wetted down with

ocean air and admiral fell

promises of evening balm,

of little flickers in pyre

wood, piled delicate between

sense memory of excitement

tied up with whipping chords

Of four-walled days, drawing

sense coming back metallic,

distorted, watery, no longer recognized.

To go out chasing,

the skywriting of surprise,

bowing to boot wash

But glowing there a

second more, the same

as ever.