What was lost, again, the hot sap
that burnt my throat with, well why not, joy.
Did I own it or just borrow it
from eyes that should be cool but were not, were hot.
A moment’s forgetting, did I turn to see
some other sort of startle in the grass,
did I stoop to heal the afflicted
beasts that lost their eyes and wings.
How often is too often, what if
this heat tore through me constant
as the sky I tear apart, claiming,
This is mine, well what of it.
Let’s see who’s still standing when I burn, again,
when the mountain is set to the match.