blue 

headed 

                             eyes barely open 

                                 sleep like a cement 

  shoe

                                                      pulling me down    

     I'm not the fire 

                      in the poem of the 

          sad child

          she said 

     burn it 

                                burn it down 

long ago 

                                   and I took pictures 

                        of her 

                                              sitting with black shiny 

                                     garbage bags
                                            on Waller St.
                                                 with a brown bag forty

                                            in her arms

 like a holy witch of poetry