Wood burning stove
Fire fully woken
within its black belly
reduce the air to slivers
flames forced to sip
savour the warmed wine
let it soak into their tongues
a charred cuckoo-clock
I imagine the cuckoo
choking on song
waiting to burst free
announcing midnight
with a flurry of flames
squeezed from its scorched
thread-thin throat
ticks as it unlatches the wood
deciding on the fly
how time should tock
a mouse made of memories
stirs from the glowing embers
crumbles its womb
with its waking
the length between breaths
between moments
decided by the size of the flesh
and how long to chew
the mouthfuls of grain
