Artifice of fire on stones, the cold
surrounding that which burns it
like myelin sheath around
the core of its nerve.
I won't remind you again of
what you've struggled to forget
since you were ten years old.
I believe we came into this world
to rectify the falseness. Like a swarm
of locust hides the sky or devastates
the crop, clears the field.
When the flame dies down, the odor
of charred meat and wood, ash
fine as our bewilderment, the color
of our hair, the mystery solved
we can hide each other.
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