A half-moon caught in the trees, / the desert emptied of birds, / my father’s voice: “You don’t have / to call me back…” and this thing I’ve / imagined, tangling up / the burnt parts of two secrets–struck match / smell, the wind-tunnel / of a glass cave bringing the heat. / I was missing and I’m still missing.
As if you were reclining–sideways, big as god–
Lightening strikes the first hill, flames hopping to the next…
How it moves through your soul, the burnt spots making vulgar and strange anything green!
Don’t worry. When you’re marooned in a corner of your office wondering how the stones of the walls outside
Made it in–remember, there’s no insight like the rule of your hills compulsively burning.