A.E. I Owe You

It is a curious night
me sitting by the fire
projecting filaments of gold
on the rusty dusty army-chair.
everything outside is empty
white
feels like Christmas.
Memory in the glass blushes
most vividly with its rosy red
forever impressed like a
photograph.
Hand moves for the last pinch
of tobacco in the gown, first
caressing the linear pattern of
the soft calm silvery lining.

I posit myself and
think like
pazzo pezzo pizzo pozzo puzzo
until.

I am sorry, truly.
I don’t even have a
fire.

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