*
Between
their
thirst
and
valleys
you
kneel
to
blanket
these
dead
with
light,
air
out
the
stove
weightless
and
nothing
to
lean
on
–just
like
that!
a
small
mound
half
iron,
half
opens
for
rain
driven
into
the
ground,
stroked
feeding
on
faces
and
edges
though
the
wood
slowly
passing
by
never
stopped
being
a
river
lets
you
drink
smoke
as
if
once
you
had
two
hearts
still
listen
for
an
echo,
corners
and
the
emptiness
that
reaches
inside
for
eyelids,
sawdust
and
blacker.
52