The Fire

The fire ashes him. The wafer-
esque moonlight pools upon
the underscape of his eyes of
night. His is not a story, but
the shuffle of aspen one morning;
the spill of cinders glowing some many
years in the campground of dark
remembrance. Burning by fire is
the radical injection of air, to an equal
degree, to all parts, a mob of molecules
and air, a transformation through
divvying-up. He is his reinstating.
He is his again giving a cadaver
to the concept it orphaned. He is
his watching the flights of smokes.
He is his walking storeward for coffee
and churros in his grey coastal morning.
He is his burning. The fire is its
ashing him. He is his piling like together
in a list. He is his listing.