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
Or a sprinkler left to its own devices in
The heat of the
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
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;
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,
Suddenly encompassing all of the hidden kingdoms and townships that
Proudly wave fiery flags of orange, while conversely wearing sunglasses.
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)
(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,
The absconded clouds
By the resurgence of fire born on earth,
Born unto earth;
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,
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
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,