Fire steals from slow decay the frame
Of one who lets us claim
This small relief:
The words are said, the ashes flown.
What’s left? A weight, a shard of bone
Still sharp as grief.
by J.D. Smith
J.D. Smith has smoked cigars in five countries. His work has appeared in Alimentum, Gastronomica and The Bark among other journals. He is the recipient of a 2007 Fellowship in Poetry from the NEA, and has also published one children's book.
Follow his blog at: jdsmithwriter.blogspot.com
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