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John Jarkowiec

4
FIRE
The tight sleep of children
lasts until your veins awaken
my first fire dance. We blaze

over Europe, birdbath
for a backpack. Water of ravens,
the real fire is birds
banded with red petals.

My dream is the deeper
dream without situations. Rubbed
into a wind-instrument, I see
your tonal variations are bruises
on apples. A cardinal,

you swoop air
from dreams of proms in firehouses
showered with apple blossoms.

I love the way you weather,
beachwood drifting away. You are
the fox sound inside a saxophone.

Anne McDonald

7