There must be something in books, something we can’t imagine,

to make a woman stay in a burning house;

there must be something there. You don’t stay for nothing.

― Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451

It was a pleasure to burn

with you, eyes a black,

eaten thing, both scarce

and scared.

A pleasure to see deeper,

charred wafer-thin pieces

gone, slate clean. To think black

eyes iridescent; catch

a peek of beetle-green.

To know bright June light,

refracting off the window pane,

giving sight to my page,

is fire enough for me.


“montag” is a poem I wrote in 2018. It was published in red eft review, which you can read online.