Pyres

Pyres

I’ve scattered leaves of your death

trying to make this yard presentable

raking rubbish, tossing memories

into trash bags, set them out on Tuesdays

for the trash man but he never comes

those bags of memories are piling

into mounds like funeral pyres

for passers-by and voyeur

tourists of intimacy to see

the garbage and collections of my life.

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