Friday, July 3, 2015


Smoke from a Petrarch sestet

rises off the deep white page.

The fire still burning the dark,

inexhaustible fuel

flowing within the metre,

the consonants, the vowels.

The carbonaceous product

of the lines arrives nowhere

except at its end in air.

Martyrdom will not allow

the singer to heave to shore

before he is lost in fire,

before he is trackless smoke.

In the heart of the atom,

there too, the particles die,

are reborn a thousand times,

no longer exist, exist.  

In the emptiness, other

fates beyond the name of fate,

other smoke and other fire.  

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