by Brad Rose
The days, delicate, lost,
all of August, an empty room.
I realize you are your leaving.
Nothing on the horizon,
but the sea dreaming flames.
You take the law into your hands.
Scissors’ hungry blade
etching a precise line, like fire ants,
below your moon-white sleeve.
Brain and book,
mouth and vein,
you invented you,
you will un-invent you.
House of names,
bay of bones,
whatever burns naturally
is fuel.
*
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. His poetry and fiction have appeared in print and on-line at:San Pedro River Review, Off the Coast, Third Wednesday, The Potomac, Imagination and Place, Tattoo Highway, Monkeybicycle, Right Hand Pointing, Boston Literary Magazine, Staccato Micro-fiction, riverbabble, Blue Print Review, SleetMagagazine.com, Fiction at Work, Six Little Things, Short, Fast and Deadly, and other publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at:http://bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com/ Brad’s novelette, Lola Loves Richard, a tragicomedy set in contemporary Hollywood, told in 6-sentence chapters, is in progress at http://lola-loves-richard.blogspot.com/