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.