The best thing
About a migrant mind
Is I forget
What I wrote
When I looked into
Black fireplaces
Where flames used to lick
Into a taste of clean air
Where chimneys no longer throttled
Smoke like my windpipe does breath.

Never forget
The fallen ink
I smeared on you
In your memory
In your haste
In my hallowed thought
And from my white hands.

Sketching graphite of a wince
Spelling spuriously, my prince
No kind of wishes
Will be together
No type of sparklight
Will tell me off again.

Breathing that soot
Is not the same
And that chimney
Remains closed for ever
On a house shut by memories
Where tears live out lives
As dry-rot.