Shrine
The only image of the old farmhouse
hung for years, small on the living room wall:
a hand-colored photograph framed in wood.
This profile view of weathered, clapboard home
breathed ruin. Orange tougues traced the roofline,
shot from every window, tumbled through walls
already gone, roared out open-mouthed porch
overhung by attic lip. Smoke billowed
beams borne away as gray ash. All lost: home
forever standing, forever burning.
Snow
Stars fall crisp and dry
between houses,
in alleyways,
fill green dumpsters
with the vastness of heaven.
I walk upon a multitude
of small suns,
reach down to touch their flames.
My fingers sting.
The white-hot stars bleed water.