Controlled Burn: Poem 3
Apr 11, 2022
Almost blurred in the subtlety of its mutation.
Motion, not because of quickness,
but because of consciousness flickering,
steps forth.
Light hits in a wash
exposing all the details
before its reach pulls away.
Boy, are things changing fast.
More than those fucked up fingers can handle.
Laying down the barrier between a verdant spring and a crumpled winter.
They can sure move though,
floating about the heat
with the movement of smoke puddled in the valley
and dusk charging in
stealing light.
