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III. The Fire Sermon

the pyre is molten oil and jarring tongues

with hands clapping the dance is

living on heat

feeding on the shoulders and knocking on the walls

she is growing from the sheets, rolling on floors

drumming in the kitchen and beating out against my ribs

O, birds falling into skeletons of ash

white hot and bidding the worms to the cooling deep

the soil is scorched and grey,

waves ran through the hills, carrying charcoal in their throats

I am the earth beneath it’s logs

sweating inward to my own flesh

am root

am grinding bean tendril

am skyward again

clutching at new oxygen

for fuel

 

 

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