(working it out slowly)
Blood still wet on the lintels,
the house slowly burns away.
Bare feet covered in ashes;
spirit perched in forest eaves.
There is never enough time to tell you
precisely what I mean. No, there is never enough place,
or no, I don’t know what I mean. Take this spark,
this child, you probably should have been. I am sifting
through the aroma of burned, charred remains,
the tattered fabric of genesis melded
dark beneath your skin. I have watched your hand slip inside
your collar countless days. Tell me what it means.
Do these clothes chafe you? Or does your skin
need reaffirmation every day?
Snags of trees moored like ghost ships
along a farmland stream.
You strike the match and light the lantern. There is a sound
like a rush of flames.