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Poetry of Issue #8        Page 78

First Draft

What is it but a heap of roughly hewn logs,
steeped together like hands arced in prayer,
hoping for a miracle that will deliver the right
word, the right phrase. You scatter kindling,
bric-a-brac - full-stops, commas and colons -
small igniters of meaning, waiting for the match
to idly choose its prey. Of course, it could all turn
to smoke, and no matter how much you blow
that wick of madness will refuse to light.
Or, with the nervous courage of a new-blown breeze,
it will take flight too quickly, consuming itself
into a pyre of ashes. Or, if you’re lucky,
it’ll slowly leap and dash into the crevices
of those logs, sparking here, striking there
and as you rest back on your haunches,
streaks of charcoal on the molten cross
of your forehead, you’ll know, you’ll know.

  Kim Waters