There – sip that whiskey-ish brunt

There – sip that whiskey-ish brunt
of wood-burning fires as suburbia
heats before boxy stoves/ I will be
shitting ichor – come morning/ Lift
a log to toss onto embers & know
there will be heat [one act’ll beget
another]/ With age we wish less &
still see more – looking away is no
way to live/ I miss my stove – I fed
it – I cleaned it out – it told me tale
after tale by naked flames at night