Fire cloud

Forests,like clouds,

Are very slow fireworks;

The densest part of a dream

Is when there’s nothing left to feel.

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Ink finger

The ink on my fingers,

Sent to me a memory-

We sat by failing cinders

With a sky full of wonder.

We told stories, made cleverly

About what you never see

It felt heavenly;

Maybe it’s just memory

But it’ll always be

Like the ink that lingers,

On my fingers

That I warmed by dying cinder-

Voluntary,

Like a glass of tea.