Glass Poetry Press

Volume Four Issue Two

Bill Shelton

October Burning

We douse oak limbs with kerosene, accelerant we call it, though not one of us is in a hurry. They blaze, orange sparks pop and squiggle like schools of minnows, like stars-then the glowing, the log a breathing lung exhaling smoke sweet as all the souls we fear we've lost. I pass the guitar, drink wine from the bottle and make my way to the shadows, wanting to sing something into the immense blue ear of the night.