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.