I look into eyes that
only see mine.
Rooted, right before me
in the dead soil, insisting
that the Life is still.
That gale is reduced to a mere moaning,
always; those trees sag into loam,
their children scampering away,
unborn ’to the World.
I have stayed awake too long to recall
the taste of ignorance, the fire
fresh and fragrant in the hearth
that thumped like a heart, its hunger
a hand rising glistening with blood.
May that I relent. May that I
leave in Time’s cold arms
so I recall who warmth was;
if I may take these petty globes
in hand, forsaking the gods, swaddled in a fabric
jagged enough to sever itself from the cloth of Fate.