in the wishful stillness
sometimes one can rise to the tops of greening trees
and still further to the sun-side of white clouds
where the flat earth beneath happily vanishes
and there is only the voice of crisp and freezing wind;
don’t we love the clarity of this desert above us
where we might empty ourselves in screams 
that get lost in the others’ abandoned echoes?
this blue that holds our poison like an embrace
until we are ready to lean back and fall like comets to the rocks below
trailing fire in our wake and landing hot as unseen love
to set fire to every resigned hallowed hand and heart…

and

when we are burnt and we are paper-light ash,
sick of the blackened crust we formed in our own image
we might might take to the currents again and rise