Lit Only By Fire

In a room
lit only by fire,
curled like nested dormice

we lift each other in the heavy
hissing silence
to listen.

We hug tight the lost ghosts,
selves we think our own,
under a midden pile

of old overcoats,
quilts and blankets
leavened with pushed off socks.

All night we hear trees creak,
crack,
and fall,

under the weight of being
green things
in a cold cosmos.

The crash of limbs
sounds untrue,
distorted and amplified

exactly like God the Foley artist
munching celery
in a cheap horror flick.

Doom cracks its knuckles,
shivers timbers,
makes candle flames flutter,

and huge shadows
limn and loom and lunge, on walls
lit only by the flicker of fire.

We blind ourselves to truth
with too much light.
When the power comes back on

with hum we make noise white,
and launder silence
of its holy stain.

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One response to “Lit Only By Fire

  1. ah, Doc, good to see you at your last again.

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