And not even the wisest man
will sleep soundly, without
burning. Without escaping
the breadth of fire. When we
cease to glow, we become
a tree. A stone. The last lines
of a short story read aloud
in the thimble of the night
to a sleeping child. A fragile hand
relaxing to its bed. Like feathers
loosening on the waxen
backs of birds. Like flame
in the lovely shape of wing.
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