summer mornings
 my fire
 is snuffed

 I have no flaming voice
 only a word in your head

 dream of the spelt and salt
 cake I will fire for you

 and before you can seek
 the future
 from the way I burn

 clean my fireplace, clear your head
 old ash and cinders block gust
 makes for poor-burning,
 makes for poor-thinking

 piled ash in my grate
 piled ash in my head
 crumbles like walls
 from incendiaried homes

 stop wandering off
 when I’m talking to you!
   
 ash up against my fire-bars
 makes them overheat
 makes you overthink

 so they sag and “burn through”
 make me virginal
 something to focus on
 something for focus

 recall collecting ears
 of spelt in reaper’s baskets

 I said stop wandering!

 rake remains of my last fire
 the last fire between my temples
 so ash falls through my grate
 train steam in your nostrils

 pick-off the cinders for re-use.

 my lightweight dark lumps,
 not my powdery un-burnable
 pieces of roasted shale
 my exhausted voice

 clear my fire-bars of small cinders,
 clear all my ash, clear all the dead,
 dry bones out of my head

 recall the crush, grind then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty
 like a pint of beer

 Concentrate! You are lighting me

 with dry, unfinished paper
 cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print. screw sheets into rough balls,
 packed into this brain space
 not too tight, but not too loose.

 keep the paper open & crinkly
 don’t pack paper into hard nuggets,
 make them roughly spherical.

    should cover my grate,
 with plenty of space to allow gust
 to blow away focus these eyes

 only one layer, as paper burns down everything on top will drop,
 roof falling in around my ears
 leave it at a couple of inches

 recall preparing the salt,
 pound crystals from the brine
 from a salt pan in a mortar,
 pack and inhale seafret
 cut the lump with an iron saw

 I’ll not tell you again!

 paper is to ignite the wood (next),
 the next thought
 only enough,
 too much will clog fire-bars
 cause stack-collapse

 as your paper doesn’t burn well,
 stuff a loose sheet under my grate
 under my thoughts
 light it
 stuff sheets underneath
 burn them

 recall forbidden
 reading, books in flame,
 memories of things not spoken
 discarded ideas

 I can be dangerous!

 break up my ash with a poker

 recall stir of salt and spelt
 into carried spring water pure
 never touched the ground
 into meal that must be rested

 my pulped treeflesh
 a support for my woodflesh
 a flicker of an idea
 a first layer of contemplation

 ASH AND PAPER  without pronouns

 summer mornings
 fire
 is snuffed

 has no flaming voice
 only a word in the head

 dream of the spelt and salt
 cake will fire

 and before can seek
 the future
 from the way burn

 clean fireplace, clear head
 old ash and cinders block gust
 makes for poor-burning,
 makes for poor-thinking

 piled ash in grate
 piled ash in head
 crumbles like walls
 from incendiaried homes
   
 ash up against fire-bars
 makes them overheat
 makes overthink

 so they sag and “burn through”
 make virginal
 something to focus on

 recall collecting ears
 of spelt in reaper’s baskets

 rake remains of last fire
 the last fire between temples
 so ash falls through grate
 train steam in nostrils

 pick-off the cinders for re-use.

 lightweight dark lumps,
 not powdery un-burnable
 pieces of roasted shale
 exhausted voice

 clear fire-bars of small cinders,
 clear all ash, clear all the dead,
 dry bones out of head

 recall the crush, grind then roast the ears of spelt, yeasty
 like a pint of beer

 with dry, unfinished paper
 cheap-newsprint not glossy magazine-print. screw sheets into rough balls,
 packed into this brain space
 not too tight, but not too loose.

 keep the paper open & crinkly
 don’t pack paper into hard nuggets,
 make them roughly spherical.

    should cover grate,
 with plenty of space to allow gust
 to blow away and focus

 only one layer, as paper burns down everything on top will drop,
 roof fall around ears
 leave it at a couple of inches

 recall preparing the salt,
 pound crystals from the brine
 from a salt pan in a mortar,
 pack and inhale seafret
 cut the lump with an iron saw

 paper is to ignite the wood (next),
 the next thought
 only enough,
 too much will clog fire-bars
 cause stack-collapse

 as paper doesn’t burn well,
 stuff a loose sheet under grate
 under thoughts
 light it
 stuff sheets underneath
 burn them

 recall forbidden
 reading, books in flame,
 memories of things not spoken
 discarded ideas

 break up ash with a poker

 recall stir of salt and spelt
 into carried spring water pure
 never touched the ground
 into meal that must be rested

 pulped treeflesh
 a support for woodflesh
 a flicker of an idea
 a first layer of contemplation

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