From the fire we make clay,
from heartstrings: witnesses.
Palm-chapel filled with matches,
she’s drawing rings around
the windows, such small hands.
There’s nothing more heavy
than weight of mystery–
sun hardly glowing through haze
they try to convince us is sky
but we know the difference.
We just stopped caring when
dead fingers began to turn to pink
roses, trick us into falling, out
of necessity, but I should have
went a long time ago…