It’s the after-burn that repels this flesh,
burning that once was. I know there’s nothing
left to fear, only feel: dry bleached shell
hearts along the fort, stuck in the walls
like some Cask of Amontillado tribute–
soil, seeds, guide me away from the drag,
coquina cement trying to make up for
the ugliness of permanency… Ocean
sand, lake sand, desert sand, none
of these are the same. Why are differences
so important? Aren’t we all trying to connect?
Defer shining obstructions to get at
the breaking storm clouds, evaporate…
And what else would condense onto
the ground except red remains of our love?