Burns

I.

Mist in the morning and it's fallout,

birds chirping slowly like geiger counters,

sunlight burns lethargic and it's florescent bulbs

in a place that I don't want to be.

And the birds chirp a little more

when I come near.

II.

Days like these when the leaves are middle-aged

and surrender to color,

the world hums a bit with some hidden purpose,

clouds remind me of you and four years

didn't happen.

I always think of burning buildings, because

somewhere they did, and someday

they probably will again.

III.

Night haunts storm drains,

waits for reality to fall, to creep out

and fill the lurking space

between blades of grass and climb

up rough bark of trees to strangle

the birds, so they don't sing.

The night finds me

and I tape my fingers because,

I don't know,

this darkness could burn and

expose film. Instead it masks thoughts

and the things I need,

so I escape to the woods,

which are quiet and mine.

IV.

Stars, like silent friends,

have to obey some laws:

like gravity, and nights when it's windy

it's hard to light.

Your name, I write on paper,

and in the gun-room,

I set it on fire

and watch you burn up.

By Ben Chamberlain
Written 10/06/11, 8:30 AM. Revised 12/06/11, Revised again 04/30/12