Granules black
like coffee grit
between my outstretched toes.

Pajamas black
and lumberjack plaid
chosen for camping in the cold.

All the bridges broken down and stacked
in the back of a pickup truck,
neatly arranged in wait of that spark,
the spark I can’t not write about,

the spark that fizzles out

and tries again to catch
and grab hold

and set roots.

Around a hearth with laughing faces
that spark outpaces me.

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