poetry

red swelter

in the drip-paint barn
to the south, and slightly west
of the mountain-house he’d built
there were hundreds
of glass trinkets
small, abstract sculptures
and such–
glittering baubles
that he’d blown of molten shimmer
aye, the small ways
we fill– the red swelter
of our days
still, I had to throw them all away
after he passed
along with most of the other
remnants
they say
he was a great teacher– of history
and not half-bad, as a rifleman
tho who should dare opine?
our beautiful madness, misconstrued
tho still beauty, lovers
and still
madness
and– I didn’t notice
any students
around
at the end
and– I didn’t notice
anyone else
around
at the end
just the sudden sound
of bulbous glass
breaking
the tall silence
which always follows us
into the red swelter
of our days

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Eric

I've come to write.

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