You Are A Perishable Item

There are sparklers involved. Flashing in vain streaks,
they’re off in a smooth corner, five of them forgetting

that there’s no magnificent sadness in amber glitter,
the knock-out stars all jumping from ashes of sticks.

No need for the wax disco, supreme Buddha enrobed in
Chinese fountains, it won’t fit in the steepled limestone.

“But even fish eventually drown,” his father plucked the
used-up metal rods that once kept the fire alive, licked the

icing from the birthday cake. Throw me a bone, or five, I
can use the marrow, build cathedrals with stained glass, mandala

with sparklers sticking out from the edges, all the embers and
the scarlets and the pink stars shining in the center, they show us

more than the black spaces we can’t reach through. They squeak
more than we lost, we’re never going back, there’s no need for eyes.


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