Pooling water; post inferno

Left to simmer

In a  cauldron,

 With no witches in sight,

And no particular recipe in mind;

The standing  water,

Whether a proud  product of

The weather,

Or a sprinkler left to its own devices in

The heat of the moment, 

The heat of the summer.

Has  been collected, and could for all intensive purposes

Be  used as a birdbath,

If not for the chunks of charred matter that rises

To the


Like a drink with something unknown  at the bottom,

An eyelash perhaps,

An encore perhaps; 

Like fish-food for everything but fish,

Like ice bergs with no susceptible  ships to prey on.

And just like  the heat from the fire before it;

Floating,  rising…

And eventually  sinking;

Some  of the bigger players in this game ,

The  same ones who always hold flushes



In one hand, and a magnifying glass in the other,

Are convinced  convection has not yet thrown in the towel.


Are still  holding out hope

That somehow the extinguished  heat will return.

The distant sun stares from far away,

From across the crowded room

From across a crowded sky

-As the doorman focuses on which coats to hang

And in which order to hang them.

 Looking intently on that lonely  black basin;

Constructed of galvanized alloys, and weak screws.

It is still a

Close relative  to the ceramic  chimenea that   exists on a diet of the finest timber,


Is sold alongside hand-spun vases and power-tools at the finest of hardware stores,

That need not stay open past eight… 

This bowl of yesterdays fire  has all the makings of an eventual   black hole,


All the markings of a bird of prey;

(At least as far as the sun is concerned)

This is the hornets nest

From which a trebuchet  will  certainly  spring fourth,


Bombard  the sun and all it’s sporadic spots,

Blinding even  the phoenix, 

In a barrage of retaliatory strikes and stings,

To a soundtrack of beating drums, striking and stinging,


Then resonating.

Suddenly encompassing all of the hidden kingdoms and townships that

Proudly wave  fiery flags of orange, while conversely  wearing sunglasses.

Muscular clouds

Hired to protect the vulnerable sun,

-Although they were never able to formerly unionize

Filled  close to bursting with

Anger and rain,

They usually  protect the skies,

(On some days)

Without incident.

(On some days)

They now instead

Take shelter behind the cold moon and all it’s craters and many, many phases.


Give way to a massive blue shroud,

Pulled tight at all four corners,

Like a sheet fresh from the depths of the dryer,

Exposing a texture that approaches that of velvet,

Or cashmere…

Or cashmere…

The absconded clouds

Frightened perhaps,

By the resurgence of fire born on earth,

Born unto earth;

Or perhaps

By the  few pieces of volcanic rock

(Used for decoration, or irrigation, decades ago)

That lay scattered about the yard,

With miscellaneous  other  fossils and cinder-blocks,

& Bones…

 & Biology…

That were long ago buried, inadvertently or not;

That have  gradually come to the surface, like some predictable fish.

Like more predicated arguments.

When that last ember burned out,

And left  behind  a layer  of  fleecy soot,

That could so easily be mistaken for

A blanket of fresh snow,

Or a sheet of blank paper,

Staring back at the author or authors and asking about the importance of scars


Correct citations,

Among other things.


If not for their peculiar smells


Differing levels of acidity,

What is left over  in the fire-pit,


What is left over from high tide,

Or dumped from an aquarium,

After  all the fish have been relocated  to a much brighter  habitat

Are  like eggs in a carton, or cereal in a box,

Or two identical  strips of bacon, sizzling for no one but themselves.

An irregular equal sign burning its image in a frying pan.

Still breakfast,  none-the-less.

Breakfast under the microscope,

Al fresco,

Et al,

Of course.

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