construction/paper

i build myself a deep nest. 
collect kindling, fiberglass strings, 
scraps of priceless tinder gathered like matches, 
photographs and dead grass. 
newspaper clippings 
and countless volumes of evergreen stored on 
bookcases that might as well be cedar branches. 
i live in a dry summer. 

postcards line the wall. 
ships sailing, trips without my echo, 
reminders that now 
i may never leave this place, at least 
not for a long time, 
too long to make sense 
of where the time has gone, 
or how my ticket, that tiny twig, 
was lost 
and how you (at the last moment) 
caught your breath and the scene shifted: 

plumes of smoke change their course, 
chasing the ghost of something beautiful.

it is easy to love what you do 
when what you do is pretend. 
we avoid using the word burn. 
i have copies of the letters iíve sent, 
and the ones i havenít. 
i have an empty cigarette pack 
wearing a hand drawn map 
i have napkins with haikus 
i have a penchant for glowing embers. 
i have a bad habit of saving dry leaves like sawdust 
in every corner of the room 
and studying how to start fires.
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