I've just burned things.

I've burned brush and leaf, and other things.

I smell of a good kind of smoke.

I've just burned things.


These are paragraphs.

This is not a poem, unless it is a prose poem.

But I have just burned things.


Much stick and twig.

Shriveled maple scrap, by the pitchfork.

Nine or twelve vestiges, relics, with words.


I wash off now, but will re-don my smoky attire.

Because I want to.


Then I'm gonna go meet Mary again and then I'm gonna pick up a bottle of wine and then I'm gonna go have late supper from oddments (not wholly unlike them vestiges whose ashes are a-smolderin' out back), with oddfellows, new and not-so.