Pinched between the burn end and a breath,
these gathered tars slide amber
for a lung – thin puddings marbled
with the garbled chronologies
of those thick slick and fulsome
lives, once shared, now torn
bits of flies composed in amber.
These garbled gathered tars
slide amber in a tube, arranged
in stain on a heart, on a lung,
on a hand scratching at flies,
thick and fulsome – jittering
yellowing folds, mattering grays.
Pinched between the burn end and a breath,
these random weightless leavings –
these pocked footprints of flies
on hardening saps – disordered,
distilled, dismembered, assembled
in still-life, rendered again,
intermittent and splashed, spill
like ash from an untended smoke.
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
Devon, the image ‘lights’ the intent of the poem, which ignites with Amber glowing… thought and depth, deep as a lung burn. A very powerfully written piece… exacting and cleverly conceived.
Thank you, Lance.
Memory has a way of twisting chronology into disordered and gray splashes that taunt us and call us fools, doesn’t it.
D
My pleasure, Devon. It certainly does…