There is a forgotten graveyard in your mind
and that’s where I deposited bits
of knotted knowledge;
just there, on the edge,
disguised as impalpable bits
of void -

Just there, when you are gone,
I can see myself,
or rather an old picture of me
that I boldly saved from the fire;
I look like Marlene Dietrich’s portrait
as a Blue Boy -

        When you come back, eventually
        you ask me about the fire
                          (I laugh, wondering if you really care;
you must be busy walking between graves,
picking stones and bones,
playing with rusting chains,
putting dirt on hand carved letters,
like a boy dragged there on a Sunday afternoon.)
         and I tell you how it all began -

A lame game:
trying to light a fire with a magnifying glass,
turned into an ocean of blazing waves -

A blame game,
and when you ask why, I can only tell you
that it is the way it is -