i would think about all the moody things i thought
then go through old juvenilia until i started throwing it away
because i'm no rimbaud or later even a wallace stevens
and so here i am throwing away all these lines
loosed full of hope on a page when life was a big unknown
and now consigned to ashes in a box labeled BURN
but the moon is a crescent over the bay tonight
and a fire down on the beach would be a prefect thing
i'll burn the old with the new and nothing else need to happen
the perfection of what is burned written or said
i can write it later and burn it again after this
even unevenness arises evenly in this flawed human being
praying to god or the literary angels to be spiffier
with a little light on the beach under the stars
*\
HB
2015.2.17
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