265/365: The Three-Second Religion
The silvery trail of smoke
that wound around your thin finger,
how you let it wander there
before you withdrew,
the eye you turned to me,
its lid a calculated grin
performed for my witness:
in that moment between beats,
during a 3-second religion's flare,
I was wholly convinced
we could burn the world clean
if only the boys would leave the room.
I am writing one poem every day in 2016, and I am using the hashtag #365poems to document my progress.