Cold dust made from fire.
Folded alms baked with ire.
Take a bow when the lights
are no more that where we
will go; to be one with cloud

Cry to a beaked wonder on
tips where the smoke groans
to an already grey sky. Lift
the terracotta and weep; find
each layered, bug-ridden mound

Breath fresh at the freedom and
be bold to be new again; indigo in
its haste. The seeded birds make
such frightful light and play in
the spilled seed that remains of us


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