Burning the Book

The anthology of love poems I bought for a quarter is brittle, anyway, and comes apart when I read it. One at a time, I throw pages on the fire and watch smoke make its way up and out. I’m almost to the index when I hear a murmuring in the street. My neighbors are watching it snow. I put on my blue jacket and join them. The children stand with their mouths open. I can see nouns — longing, rapture, bliss —