Instead of a bowl of fire, spitting
sparks and ashes into dimming dusk,
this day is marked by a lava lamp
in the darkness, its slender glow lined
with an ellipsis of molten globes,
graduated sizes floating like
the tail of a cartoon speech balloon.
The imagined words float somewhere off
in space, over there, up towards the wall
or the ceiling perhaps? I almost
see the word bubble pursing its lips,
resisting the comment it wants us
to find ourselves and speak with our own
mouth, transmuting memory to what?
Something more kind than what was once said.