Combustion
by Dominic Cuthbert I can smell The smoke from fires That tease the sky outside, In suburban gardens That make up this city, Set around a cathedral Like the centre of a clock face. Flames are fed The last of autumn's leaves. From the inhalation I have ash on my tongue And on my teeth. It may whiten the enamel The way bicarb does. My smile reads like a newspaper, May I replace it daily As I press the grey into my gums And try to outwit my reflection. Next Page
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I have gathered cuttings Taken from new growths. The saplings are far too young burn. They must know the flames. I hear them scream From beneath the bark – It does not burn but blacken. The blossom is browning Having fallen from the branch Beside roadside renovation. The men who work there Do so until midnight And like the springtime They cannot fulfil The promise of the passing autumn. Those in hibernation Must upturn their noses To the smell of smoke. |
A SinCity by Miruna Poienaru
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