https://www.splitrockreview.org/duckler

A Clinic

The man who must discard seven years of records

sits on a stool before the fireplace, poking wells in the burnable hours.

Names fold into themselves, numbers and acronyms

on some body that paid or didn’t; recovery, relapse, a knee

he remembers shaking gently like a snow globe

the fragments dividing like ash—all transfer to smoke and air.

First the papers burn hot, loud and crowded

then blue and thoughtful, a jazz score

then grey, something to stamp and deaden—is it possible to watch

words burn without wanting a philosophy?

As a child he made emptiness bright

at the campfires of his useless family

now he sits, not sentimental but in a celebration for which

there is no card. Seven years burn in seven days.

He made up a system, something about packing the firebox at night

and banking embers against the new day.