the man is a smokescreen
combustible his flaming hair confrontation
grappling for water is he breathing that fire? is he
turning to paper? are his words vapour ?
the pages of his skin the ashy flecks the light pours out of him
word’s own headings the font of his footsteps
hastening the clack of his feet like fingers on keys,
rattle of breath, the fire leaping from him
is he breathing those flames? is he eating that heat?
fat spattered walls skin sizzling
the house is akimbo and flailing
how is its rambling rooms now?
the chapters of its presence redundant
now aflame, now just fuel
now the dream of the burning man
running quite fast, is he fast enough?
is he breathing in that stench of
arching sentences soaring themes the ounces of
time worn words clasped in covers that are
on fire now shrivelling under the poem man’s glare?
and still he is moving and flaring and his eyes
are the stuff of legend and his smoke smells of
elegant curlicues phrases unbent and scorched
shriveled into single words while the house
topples, like a horse to its knees and there it
whistles and keens while the man runs on
his hair like volcano is he breathing? how is he moving
through volumes of smoke? and out of the structure
lighting the world, flicking ash out behind him
down the stairs down the bombshell building
the smokescreen of his figure leaps see him there
arc in the sky a sunset orange
a spot too bright too watch for long
throws himself into the arms of the sky
who holds him shaking and murmuring
until he burns out and the rushing over
sleeps dark sleep of the lost and the broken
until the next poem.