Concealed

Behind him
Wood burned inside
A metal prison
The old basement furnace
Feeding on dried limbs
Breathing through
An invisible prism

Onto the cool surface
Of Plastic
Cracked and twisted
Snapping sarcastic
Between the strained fingers of an old man
And the scattered
Memories of his past


Sitting on the concrete

Where a modern container
Chewed and dusted through time
Waited below green, baited eyes
Lit by the fire
Old, and more wise
Maybe this time

When the lid fell
It scratched loudly on the concrete floor
Sliding toward the furnace
Its edges melting quickly
Into the imperfect surface
More and more

The young man pulled up his seat
To look inside the past
Where things were more still
And are still
Where they were last

Enough to remove them
From their plastic bonds
To contemplate the furnace
Where and when
These things stopped existing
Eyes fixed and entirely earnest

On every picture, every word
He pulled from its mouth
Looking back at the fire
That lit his concealed canvas
Lived by an unbound painter
Unburnt and untouched

Until the moment
When each black iris
Constricted within the green
Locked on the orange flame
Knowing what he wants
What he had

As he threw it into the fire
With a painful expression
Fearing the future
That the past might bring
Within the absence of discretion

He coughed
On the black, stinging smoke
Picking up everything
Before the burning plastic
Would cause his mind to choke
And forget to leave that place
With everything he forgot

Where the edges of the lid
Still melted
And the fire roared for hours
Feeding on another cage
Into the moving light that devours