BY NATE STAINS
when the masonry is done
and the hollows of irregular aortae
pour cool dew as a maiden of heaven would
from silver, stepping upon the sand
fine as white chalk, recording
every footstep
every scale
as tracks round the mirror’s edge
under the cool awning of stone
between the pillars that hold the sky, human passion
burning as swift bonfires
that sublimate into a hiss
when that crackling roar grows elder
and its life is stolen into the frigid air
as what once was metamorphosizes into
a cloud of firebugs
and now and then these darters
come like willowisps to the
reflection devoid of vanity
they cast themselves in, and ripples grow
and move, the language without words,
sounds, figures,
images
or grudges of any impurity.