If I am awake,
I am one of the stages of fire:
Smoldering, steady, or engulfing.
I have become a walking compromise, like everyone else, to better suit the climate.
Men and women are pastries.
Our ghosts are locked inside prefabricated sepulchers.
I don’t pretend to be a different breed;
my great searches are of vanity
and my truth is one withheld in the very muscle of a starlit psyche.
The wrappers and mediums of our addictions
flood ours and other continental area,
obsessive for the rainbow, kudzu calling home where it lands.
I will be quiet soon; I will be at peace by the end of this,
as long as the rangers,
dressed and pressed,
do not try to forfeit mine,
like they have the other natives’ rights.
There will be a crater:
from the vantage of all viral places,
inside of which,
will go untold,
the actions of a priest
Who lies naked under the bright, understated columns,
to the hum and grind of a proper singularity.