28 Mar 2026: Ghost Fire

I smoked you like those 
yellow-lipped cigarettes you like.
You tasted like menthol and went up
like a church.
"It all starts tomorrow," you kept saying,
"It will change tomorrow."

Well, ghostfire, go on then.
Go up like that old church:
Stained glass charred-black,
altar of cinders,
pews recumbent and ruined,
smoking like a wreckage
of bodies and blankets.

It all starts tomorrow!
Feel your pulse—
pressure aphotic,
but isn't it warm?
Your little furnace
won't burn long, ghostfire.
Look at the clay 
on the path to the old church;
they're sweating anticipation.
You hold the match,

and the clay will claim you.
Burn, baby, burn.