Cold dust made from fire.
Folded alms baked with ire.
Take a bow when the lights
are no more that where we
will go; to be one with cloud
Cry to a beaked wonder on
tips where the smoke groans
to an already grey sky. Lift
the terracotta and weep; find
each layered, bug-ridden mound
Breath fresh at the freedom and
be bold to be new again; indigo in
its haste. The seeded birds make
such frightful light and play in
the spilled seed that remains of us