Blaze

Birch Portrait #34

144 145 would miss us with a white-hot burning for as long as they held on. And those who held old photographs would conjure our voices above tree line, in whiteout, the road drifted over. Long after the photos have fallen, white flakes of ash in a stranger’s grate, our distant, white-boned daughter will warm her cold ear along the thigh of her lover. Her breath on his skin white language he can lose himself in that white on white remake us windswept blue in its own image. ...