There’s fire in
the hole, but I have lost
The hard endeavor in
the smoke and spark.
For whom and whence
was written I knew once,
Boss hog gavotting
just in front of death,
Illumination in the
margin, sky
The color of Crayola
never glimpsed
By god or inamorata.
Have you seen
The hole I filled
with powdered air and notes
Of sherry, Spanish
flies, and cherubim?
I thought not. Let
it burn. Maybe the ash,
On such hot air,
will land on something green.
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