I want you to burn my things.
I know you keep a box of me
in the basement of your father’s house
hidden in a panel of your truck
or buried beneath azaleas in the yard
where your wife will never see:
a red matchbook from a Texas hotel
sketches of cacti and western suns
blocks of sage incense
strips of birch bark and flecks of mica
boarding passes, revealing photographs
my recipe for Irish stew.
I think there is a button,
coatless and lonesome
and a lingering brown hair.
If there are thumb-torn letters
from countries and lifetimes ago
I want them to bleed kerosene
and for you to bite a match.
I want their stamps to dance
at flashpoint from a
gas can tainted black.
I want to fly up as Utah ash
and come down Kentucky rain.