Fire Never Burns Like Winter

 
pressed flowers in odd books, strewn about the catastrophe
that amounts to a bedroom 
in a flat with a window made of cheese
and a seldom doorbell, defunct by design 
like windchimes made of cement-
half-dreamt in a dead calm
that matters to a dream
of a breeze-
Talking to Itself
because It’s
there.

so, fire never burns like winter.
the mirror is the pond scum of insight
and deeper are the glass sparrows
in oil… fumbling in the perfect sky 
of absolute nonsense-
masquerading
as Blue.