So much on the verge
of flame.
In a hot
wind anything
is tinder: paper, sage
feverish with bees,
your auburn
hair, my hand
that glows with a thought.
Sunset
or sleepless dawn,
nothing is sure
but what’s already burned—
water that’s ash, steel
that has flowed and cooled,
though in the core
of a star, they too
would fuse and rage,
and even volcanic
glass and char,
and the cold seas,
and even
what we once were
might burn again—
or in the heart.
