Tony Burfield

Burn Barrel Evening

Rusty Burn Barrel. Milk carton. Potato peel. Newspaper. My one match rule. I touch the flame to all the corners, the edges of the carton, the wrinkles of the paper. So light the ice air snowfall. And the heat turns blue. The green flames of plastics. The sizzle somewhere deep inside the bundle. My fingertips stoke. The late January evening barely lit lends me the quiet of the chore.

spider from the flame
i set her softly
onto a snow death