In the bonfire I see something that would eat even death.
So death must not be made of air after all.
I see summer’s bones smoldering long after the flame.
The seasons curled like scrolls of verse around each other collapse.
We have one of these every month, the landowner tells me.
Just from the stuff that falls away.
The one who stands in darkness while the other watches the sun set
will be walking in the morning sun while the other kicks off a fitful dream.
At a certain point it will make sense to gather fallen branches.
To dream wide awake of a motion that will eat even death.