This is the nature of fire. It wavers, flickers,crisply golden. It cracks
on a match-tip, and the boy waves it clean,
to a memory, emitting a vanishing wisp, skyward,
like the mill-smog of smokestacks,
once floating over town, long before
he learned that germs evolve
into distended guts & awkward limbs.
He wasn't always human.
He knew this.
Night like a slow panther, follows day.
emerges from the steppe. The boy wonders
how life without dirt would be. Life without
land and smoke and rain, its percussive patter tapping
upon his window glass,
as he places his dirty hand flatly upon it, observing
snaking down in ghostly-lines,
to his wrist, tiny swimming ancient
along the lines
of his young hands,
to a murky pond, his palm, where once frogs
burped and birds hiccupped.
He makes eye contact with himself
through glass. Earth, he thinks,
you’re the vagabond, not me.
Gregory Letellier is student of Literature at
He has poems published or forthcoming in Emerge Literary Journal, Linden Avenue
Review, Poydras Review and Clutching at Straws. Boston