The Fire
A man said to me, “my head is on fire.”
I took it to mean he had a fever
or that his mind was so full of ideas
he had to depend on such metaphors.
But no, the man’s head was on fire
and the fire burned with such splendor
I understood him to be bragging,
for which, I feel, he had every right.
He had piled those many sticks
upon his metal, maybe gold, crown
the embers biting into his brain,
the fire itself shooting up, his hair.
Despite this, he is calm, noble,
he wears a lovely pendant regally
and stands so very straight
as his waxen neck melts away.
-- anyway, I have no idea where this came from...
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