This microphone of time
listening and laughing
up on you
piling things
any things
it can find
to see
what
fire
produces


fire encapsulated
in

I am whistling
you would like it

I am
he hesitates
honesty

he swallows
a drink

of this now
half hidden

*******
too right

do right
by

a song of seasons
of small thinking

ensues and we
wait again

however hundred
years

make clear
death

from lack
of poetry

ensues breath
*******
brazen attempts
at plurality



Copyright@2019 Dennis Willis