So burdened with a burning Song, the Soul
makes, moves toward that eloquence of gold
when flames have stripped her body of what stone-
like flesh surrounds the Phoenix in its home
within the heart, upon its bed of ash,
its gaping breast revealing in a gash
some vein of priceless metal for the forge
to siphon, like a cruel but kindly whore
might summon pain from deep inside a man
and coax it into blooming in the hand,
its petals wet with music—a tale told,
sung in that wounded poetry of gold.
05/28/2016
West Vancouver
after azurite