poem

Scrap

Long ago someone lit

A match and burned a hole

In the middle of my page

Without turning it all to ash.

I wrote around the edges,

Filled it up with all that I knew. 

But you can’t write into a void

Where the words just fall through.

Your own sheet was singed

From the outside in

Leaving just a shrunken 

Central decorticated remnant.

The minute I saw your jagged scrap

I knew it was just the piece

To perfectly fit my empty core

Without a sliver of an overlap.

But paper is a flimsy shield.

Just because something fits

Doesn’t mean you are safe.

The flames are in the fields.

2/21/21