Savannah Remembers Our Fire Channel—A Villanelle

Savannah—she remembers our way to the fire channel

A reverie of dim hair, damp eyelets and fire ale

In moonbeam, molten hearts are brought to its edge to boil

 

Curious dryads—they swim, look at the inflamed engines and handle

well the overlapping of patterns perceived; the quicksilver pale

Savannah—she remembers our way to the fire channel

 

Rough pebbles—the garlands of a surface to travel

Scribbled words on a heart at the bottom; reflected, a mortar fail

In moonbeam, molten hearts are brought to its edge to boil

 

Buried fervor—below, every good thought a core of profound annals

through which the crust of a sentiment’s magnum is hailed

Savannah—she remembers her way to the fire channel

 

Sweltering passages—Horrible! Horrible! ideas—with hands we tunnel

Come now! The blissful ignorance; a deck scattered with barren, stale

moonbeams with founded hearts—brought to an edge to rightly boil

 

My reflection, a wretched pulse—given annex to spirits so carnal

Murky sediments disturbed; the end: a mixture to raven and scale

Savannah—she remembered the way to our fire channel

In moonbeam, where molten hearts were brought to its edge…and boiled

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