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
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.