The Cinder Relic

He comes to me when day burns to a blank face
And night fattens into a grin. His nails,
flesh-crusted beaks of vultures, scavenge my memory
scourge contours of a water-run cheek line
and scrape up pictures he knows I’ve taken
for kindling this dying fire.

Through smoke and ash, an image:

embers fade as your likeness curls,
leaving behind a single relic.