Steam

I can’t warm my face over love like before.
I would drip, for the world, cold world, tipped
like a devious bucket, just enough—oh, didn’t oceans pour
through our ethereal flame! This has truly been a bad rain.

This kindling does not even matter, it’s wet
And won’t burn. I say, man, just wait for the day, but I hate looking
Back at that dim soggy pile, that ashy knoll, when yet
The sight scalds, and I can’t hold my face away from the steam.

Now I breathe heavy in the dark, but when I knew the winds…
They were like pilgrims. They picked us up to walk along
When we were a flame—remember how the pine sap hissed
As we kissed each needle, spread some word of peace.

Now the hiss rages, against smothering, like a cornered beast. Best to leave
It alone, says my conscience. But when the leaves dry, when
I can sprinkle sand and blow it away like ash,
When a choir of sunny rock says “assemble us into a ring,”

When the shrubbery buoys and springs back from the spill,
flexed as if giving birth, when the water weight lifts
passes, slips, abandons like distractions eventually will, don’t tell—
the world will turn scarlet if it comes too close.