Burning Hot

Burning hot,

moving dread,

you remember last July

as if it was today.

And maybe it’s true,

“to heal”,  she said:

“takes a little bit more

than to start again.”

To watch the books piling up,

as if you were not there,

because there’s no one to read,

when my garden is dead.

To cradle a thought,

to leave this place,

burning hot,

moving dread.

Gianluca Yornet