I wanted my first appearance at Poetry Thrusday to be with a poem that followed the prompt (brilliantly, of course!) but . . . the muse kept handing me balls of fire.
Burn
He could have cracked
through the island of his mind -
he finally understood:
it's not just that everything
she touches burns,
but she burns to touch -
to let her fingers hunt
past his lust
to find his thirst.
But his skin is pale
from sensible fluorescent light-
his feet stalled over
all his points of departure -
his eyes sensitive to flare.
So he hunkers down
under the cover of indifference -
avoids the sparks of her hands-
slams the door of his psyche
against the back draft.
He could have cracked
through the island of his mind-
but he didn't understand
the fertility of ash.
