jet of bitumen,
a relaxed snaking coils
in the seeking hand.

tiny galaxies
b u    r s  t
and trinket words
shatter
all across the torched-glass plain----

frigid smouldering.
honest candescence--insulation,
clarity where the freshly birthed meet senex
and ashen widows dissipate
into thin air

I find Havisham in the glow.