Further than proximate fires
and natal storms
We bury innumerable open hands
into the pollen smell of
Into the womb of this cold earth.
Hands that no longer seek warmth.
The invisible shadow of missiles lurk
Hungry. Arrogant, cascading on thickets
And a hush falls on yellow eyes,
Leaves wilt into shadows of green.
No winds resurrect them. Neither water.
The Sun does not sing in them
the galvanic rhythm of seasons.
The black hands of death break
into secret sounds
of a simoom.
And our mouth lies caged in
In our ashen breast
whispered into untamed disregard
to the earth and the sky.