Craig Wisner

burn me out

Glaring granite and thin, dry air-

I want the white hot sun to burn me clean, burn me out.

No sound but wind and chop on an alpine lake;

footsteps, breath.

-or wind in creosote branches, licking lips, rubbing crusted salt from around the eyes;

footsteps, breath.

And then the forgetting.

Burn me out, let me forget

and frighten me

into going home.

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