It was always a predawn sky

just beginning to give signs

of the glow

when we climbed out of bed –

hauling this, that and

the other

to the backyard fire pit

But the bottles would not

burn, so they were stacked

in the garage waiting –

“Dorothy, you are not

in Kansas anymore”,

the foil covered windows

whispered to me, harshly

You liked this time of day

best of all

the space when insanity set sail

with little notice

eyes closed or trying

much too hard to wake up,

while we drank

champagne and vodka –

watched the fire burn

You forced yourself to rise,

feeding me your sickness, keeping

your preternatural rhythm intact –

but it was the only thing

that remained, all else

was remembrance or

imagination, cultivated amongst

the stacks of vinyl

papering the living room wall

So the fire had to be lit

the words from yesterday’s

encounters erased

our short time together

precious and terrifying

as I picked up a brown paper bag

and tossed it into the inferno

                                                            It was only within

                                    that raging heat

                        clashing with the

            cool morning breeze

that I momentarily

                                                                        lost

                                                                                                my regrets