Sunday, February 2, 2020

Jason Baldinger writes

maybe we burn the past

I'm trying to imagine
car as hang glider
as I barrel up gravel
on this side of the mountain
if I leave up off the pedal
we'll be stranded far from
the voice of any tow truck

we sit next to the fire ring
mid-summer, the park
stripped of kindling
logs in the fire are damp
gypsy moth caterpillars
race a frog across a rock

I have a torn bag of papers
things I lost long ago
we sit quietly, toss
handfuls, crumbled sheets
turn quiet blue
catch, flame, burn off
seconds at a time

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