I brought out my 12-string
to warm herself and revel
in the scaly black and pulsing
stomach of the fire

making studies in opacity
through undreamt notes
and harbouring the close
straight grain of dreams

her preciseness of tone
pausing before the thought
of burning sunset clouds
and lucid ashes

cleaving out a harmony of
dust and luscious hotness
working the curves and keys
and sweeping out creation

reaping the fire for precious
cinders, noting and stacking
for the winter which
came today without you