Jul
12th
Sat
12th
# 3
We run etching our names on white oaks,
Typing pages ignoring tempo, and typo,
Firing our existence in the kiln of impermanence,
The glaze glares still fresh in the heat of a morning sun,
Long after the fire escapes our lungs,
We build sculptures stark against the sky,
Steel scaffolds, ignited interiors lit by temporarily contained fire,
Someone change my light bulb,
So I might glow another nite.
