In the firelight flicker the fluid images
of all my old imaginary friends,
the shadows are cast upon the wall
of monsters that never were. Troubles
I remember, though I stare into the flames
as if all the memories are merely
tricks of the light, and I wonder what
has ever been true in the breathings
that I am. Have I learned anything at all?
It is easy to repent of crimes you
never committed, and I have understood
less the crimes I am guilty of:
in the firelight dance the visions of
myself that excused me for a moment,
shielded me from the fire until
the notion cracked, the armor proved
illusory, and I burned. This firelight,
though, this window into the dreaming —
the wood that I have spent this night
tomorrow will be ashes, but this
minute now, as the fire burns, as
I conjecture that I exist, it is as if this
minute had been written before time,
to behold like destiny his grandchildren.
