There must have been something here, to burn this long Without ceasing. No tinder trifling coy with flame Could last two years time, no sign of tapering. No wrong As slight as yours would smolder still. In spite of rain, Dry, dead mistakes catch quick, old hate favors inviting Arson; black coals turn red, by no cool wisdom drowned. Now, in living, seething scorn at how a crooked daisy hiding Behind my ear was less to you than austure walls, the sounds Of empty, neutral halls were dear to you and deadbolt doors, At how you chose your special suit and surety of elbow room: I smile at calling you my favorite corporate robot whore. Yet every day, I bury, deep, again, what always lies exumed At dawn, aglow with heat. So there must be, underneath desire Some disremembered depth of love that fuels this pyre.
~CRH, May 2012
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