Muted Fire Talk

In the corner I can
hear a small squeak, perhaps
your voice—annoyingly
requesting me to remember.
The burning page under your
cage is beginning to smell—
it seems to be coming from
underneath me, somehow.
A clean burn slowly turning
-yellow-brindle-copper-
alleviating into a fine silt
of smoke. And then,
I remember.
The dim lighting,
the open book,
yellowing pages,
Chianti and a
poem.

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