God struck a match,
scraped it upon the chafing flat of this horizon
and set aflame our sun, who burns
with the pure fire of eternal things
robed in Time’s illusions.
Thus may we come to know ourselves:
When she showers golden ash
upon us, and lights up the sky.
In this forsaken place
replete with signs,
I am prone to misgivings
over leaving the destitute for what is flowery—
Who are we to claim a greatness in the midst of disaster?
Rain spilt in the desert reeks
I close my eyes
and welcome Death, a rainbow.