by Scott A. Nicholson

Her hair's the color of LA at night

On such occasions when the Santa Anas

Have left the hills bone-dry and burning bright,

And from its blaze a wave of pyrocirrus

Projects the devil's choice in hue for all

His would-be sacrifices to the last.

But I'm as far away from that locale

As from whatever place her eyes are cast,

Reflecting in their glass the distant fire

And kindl-ing the pounding of my heart

To suffocate within our mingling pyre

The friction for a little flame to start.

If gasoline and air is all we need,

Then why must she remain so cold to me?

4/6/2010 6:18 pm