so the house turns to ash,
the old boards to embers and smoke,
aged and grey, tasting the air after arson -
billowing from burning carpets and curtains
and drifting from windows, doors cast open.
the book-page butterflies spill out
from shelves and cabinets
on black-stained breeze
while pieces of flare stuck in mirrors
think, give light conversation
about the past to the opposite wall -
to old paint peeling off
so delicately as to be a flower
in its likeness of a gasp,
crying instinct - impulse:
a single bloom born to a gesturing wind
which whistles under new petals
singed, wearing wallpaper patterns
packed dark with little bicycle men
wearing top hats and suit jackets
and women all done up in dresses,
dancing like flames.