Wednesday, July 17, 2013

"Boy" (Poem)


Solitude has begun to burn the log of self 

but the two have not become the unity 

of which ash is the visible half-truth. 

Foolish ash, who prides yourself 

on being the only child of the marriage 

of log and flame. You can only 

sing through sisters of air. But dualism 

denies debate. Log turns ash. Flame becomes air. 

No connection but immaculate conception. 

Foolish ash of the unassailable future 

Disguising yourself as a log 

to "protect" the trees
presenting solitude as a forest fire
which means less to the forest
than to the wooden houses not yet built

as if one can see without eyes 

or that all that one can see is eyes. 

Surely they're mine. Everything is. 

Surely pain is an illusion, 

and the loss which makes a tree ash 

without becoming a log 

may warm those by the fireplace 

in the summer house of the sun 

in which we live and die each second 

eluding the censors for sure 

and eluding the senses we redefine
as body tingles a word like mind.

Chris Stroffolino 
(an earlier version appears in

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