The Paper Read: No Injuries from Fire in Loveseat

From the molten center of a beige Fiore loveseat,
particles spiral, collide, and with natural passion,
experience incredible fusion, radiating like the sun,
amplified by thick glass lenses, searing ants
on the scalding sidewalk, bodies sizzling,
curling inward, twitching beads of water
dancing on a hot grill, nearly leaping from the pan.

An empty barn on the brown horizon,
at the limits of Spoon River County,
screams flagrant with yellow arms
grasping at navy night, strangling
the abandoned hayloft, the rafters,
the clapstick siding: kindling
for the fireplace in our quaint suburban home;
two lovers, embraced by the rounded elbows
of a beige loveseat with floral fringe.
Our bodies are grinding sticks,
our friction inspires heat, flame, fire. 

There is a fire in our loveseat that burns like sun;
we thought it would rage, rage!
A perpetual inferno, we said.
One for the ages, we agreed,
as they beat down the doors
and blew us away.
They soaked us to the bone
until we, dripping, thick ash
sticking to our limbs, sift
through the blinking embers
and charcoal remains,
staining our reserve,
charring pages.

Puffs of smoke
escape the gray rubble,
easily removed
by the small,
oscillating
window fan.

- Jim Davis