The flame lifts
In improvised
Consummation,
Following fuel.
What made lit heat
Is left
Changed:
Blackened, rough;
A small nest of ash.
Those dark granules
On your eyelashes.
The tears
Are wasted:
The fire place
Already cold,
And the wind
In the chimney
Nothing to do
With us.
"Refined
Waste" first appeared in The Yale Review.
More
Thomas Bolt
Back to
Recently
Published
More Thomas Bolt
Back to
Recently
Published
"Refined Waste"
copyright (c) by Thomas Bolt. All
rights reserved.