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(poetry is a matter of spontaneous combustion)


In the dilapidated old store-room of your brain,
there are, maybe,

a few faded clippings of dozy summer days
dust collecting on a box of forgotten names

maybe a bunch of dreams
sitting in the corner going sour

(nothing too spectacular to look at)

but if it sits for a while
and this wire falls (just so) across that magnet
or this match lands (plop) in that (boom) tank of kerosene

or maybe some spark suddenly crackles into being out of nowhere

the whole thing goes up like that

and the fire,
maybe,
makes that old store-room glow

and those crumbling old memories are transformed
into a newborn golden fireball
as bright as a thousand suns.
Posted 11/23/10
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