The Art of Passion
Ask about the aching, and I
will tell you
about greenhouse glass,
how our dreams
tick at the cracks
of panes.
You said
it would be this way, the fire
seen through smoke spheres,
while crumbling
bricks of bitter fall slowly
onto red dirt,
sending a ripple of ashes
into the ferns.
Now you rust
into earth
through porch flames;
You were lost
in the art. You know
it will begin this way.
