as sure as largest grief dies while smallest nostalgia grows and grows

as sure as we must relish the now, like one nurtures embers to living flame

lest the present moments slip past all unnoticed, written in cold stone

self-awareness is flammable; let’s make use of it as tender

then add some newspaper – it’s not cheating – and watch its words crackle into ash

but no magazines… we don’t want the glossy sizzle and stinky smoke of the overly self-conscious.

now sticks alight, now bigger sticks, whole branches, logs, a pallet…

what’s this someone has brought to burn? A wooden door!

how the doorknob glows with heat!

I resist the urge to grasp it, turn, pull

and enter, surrendering

my self whole to the fire