Monday Poem

Burnt Love

My memory’s a divine brothel, he said
remembering a fog of lust

What drives a man is evanescent;
even that fierce flame. Jesus

how time clips wings and buries
even conflagrations in dust

In a pool of recall,
which is always troubled
by a new morning breeze,
you may never see
the forest or the trees—
but there is a gaze
beneath this trouble,
thought Narcissus, who
knew it was himself he saw
in ripple and wave among
desiccated leaves

My memory’s a divine brothel,
he said again
who could not put his mind
or finger on
the echo burnt love leaves

by Jim Culleny

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