Monday, March 11, 2024


 In the Conservatory with a Candlestick

Every moment is a lit match

Flickering in a dark room

Some gray February morning

Menaced by strange winter thunder.

Getting older is running out of matches

Burning each one down 

To the absolute nub

Searing thumb and forefinger.

Every iteration of old self

Is huddled somewhere in a quiet

English conservatory 

Waiting to get murdered.

All you hear is the sound of matches striking

Against strips of powdered glass 

Rapid at first and then spaced out 

In ever wider intervals

Like popcorn left too long in the microwave.

It dusks and then gets darker and darker

As everyone begins to ration what’s left.


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