Poem – Picture 

Meadow of matchsticks,
soon to be rekindled

by Spring the incendiary.
The exact flame of your blossoms

will ignite the passions

happily sapped by time–
Dripdrop their excess went

and now miners’ hats

light up like love before
your vein, the frame of which

is there to depict the drift,

the waste when I painted
all the review copies

they sent me. But those books

open to polar pages where you
and I weigh the ends of this

teeter totem down, you

at the head and nadir me;
where postmortem is

the aura of self-portrait,

its other half regained at last. 

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