It’s a clean, forthright process:
pile the branches, sprinkle some gas,
strike a match and watch fire
carry them off in clouds of smoke.
Standing over a heap of ashes,
I wish life were as easy as this:
gather your mistakes in a heap
and just torch them all away.
Of course, that’s a pipe dream.
Mistakes are hard knots of wood
which deny fire satisfaction---
they smolder and blacken,
but refuse to burn
