Poetry

Can you see the smoke 
coming from 
the brick kiln? 
 
The finches 
were jumping into firepit 
one by one. 
 
To enlarge― 
the space between groping 
and assault. 
 
There was no need 
to start an uproar 
about pungent― 
 
black forest of silences. 
A face is suspended in midair. 
That simply was not there.