Burning fuel sheds smoke into the sky,
turning the starfield into an even darker

view of the time/space continuum.
Inside the metal door heats, sometimes

to cherry red, emitting its own waves
like a private negative sea.

A shovel reclines on a bed of coals,
wooden handle stained by grime,

sweat, coal dust light as a bruise,
softer than a whisper in the late night,

when the pipes sound as a choir,
moaning through their courses,

hidden between the surety promised by
walls. The sun is also a furnace,

boiling gases that charm over damp grasses,
make the tulip fold open,

dries the t-shirt hung on a rope.
We burn alike all the others heat up,

Between us, a single flame dices on
Our lives, gambling for an enduring spark.

Mark Burgh

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