Ashes rise from trash.
Sparks break through the screen.
Snow blows from needles
of pines that reach up
while the sun burns down.
She chose to wear wool
instead of a house.
Fat, round icicles
sharpen in her mouth.
Papers twist and breathe.
In the wind tonight
cinders shrink quickly,
dark, cold, vanishing . . .
No one can see her
watching the fire float.
Published in Kaimana
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