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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…


This poem
Like smoke
rising to a great expanse
That merely obscures the reality
Of a greater