You caused these burnings.
My hands shrink and crack
like a cat creeping into the fire,
a silhouette kindling copper fire
in the fingers of the paw.
And you knew,
Old God of kerosene,
of ether,
that the scarlet worm,
flame of devastation,
had slunk into your garden, strewn with embers;
fruits, knowledges,
afloat like paper lanterns.
He came, as I came,
bearing roots of feathers,
embryos of scales,
and the coal, still warm and lit,
which we kept, deep in the chest,
on the cold nights.
And as we built our Enoch,
we dug for that spark:
tongs between our ribs, extracting
slowly, slowly,
the germ of our beacon,
to be set on high for our children,
not yet come.
Who sees it, and does not wonder,
has drank deep of the chemistry
of inhibition. He has cast
aspersions on his birthright
of paper and straw;
he has sold himself for water.
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