The Flames The flames know what they’ve been given to eat. They’d prefer cabbages of newspaper, Brush piles in the highway median, A barn some boys played in for the last time. Give them an apartment complex in which Hoarders have gathered what the world has Suffered them to, that wasn’t built to code. Give them the curving wicks of candles Lonely women light for the company Of something dancing, tips of cigarettes, Art in the desert, a letter the one Who wrote it decides against sending, A photograph he can no longer stand To look at, trash in a barrel under An overpass, glowing off outstretched hands. Give them a church.
love the rickety sojourn through substances feeding the cravings of fire.
This is FANTASTIC I love this poem❤️🔥