Burnt

you impale all
things you believe
on the grain of your lining, where
they take root
or, lightless
rot into stories

your grand shoulders, terraformed
hands beyond the unknotting
scooped from terrain marked by worse
than burns, when only
combustion of all around you
will make a peninsula from your isle

scorched at every effort, we
the wine and bread
bite and leaven
have tamped it to the inner turnspit
in seasons spanning behest
your dirge is cyclic
bilious to the touch
yours the napalm lick

raked by your tongue
we’ve all flown by you
we’re ash now
when you’ll think to sift for us
when you’ll want to sing us songs
we’ll be sprouting in turned soil
well beyond hearing, holding
phoenixed
damp as poppies