Burning Time

           
                       

                     

                                   

You press a coin into my palm,

blow menthol back over your shoulder

its thin smoke blooms into

wide sky—

                   and ash rustling.

The distance receives you like a prayer;

incrementally until you’re gone.

Everything struck by sun:

bark of maple trees,

                           

                                  an ant abdomen,

the yard’s expanse of flame-shaped leaves.

The stolen book of matches burns a hole

in my pocket, palm-sweat on the dollar,

fidgeting through supper.

That last hour of light spent striking matches

in the brush behind the machine shop,

watch dry grass fold into flame.

The first star smoulders over the old orchard.

You come to mind in times of burning

and now that autumn’s past the stars have sharpened.