Elwin Blaine
This poem
Like a match:
A bulbous head running rapidly
on rough red,
Sparking, igniting, burning;
Killing oxygen,
Giving light—
Flickering in circles that reveal the world.
An insignificant piece of wood
Lying at the naked feet of martyrs,
Smoke rising from a ruddy face as
Straw slowly succumbs to the unheard
Laugh of this delicate fellow.
Cold, poised, positioned, struck…
Lit…
Forgotten.
This poem
Like smoke
rising to a great expanse
That merely obscures the reality
Of a greater
