We are merely terrestrial,
lately arrived at the point
where papered words fragment so fast
we forget the wind that shakes the last of leaves.
First came the sea, swarming cells,
then ponds, lilies, thistles, vetch
then tigers, starlings in their churning circles,
and look how well the moss persists.
All before our rooms with small glass panes,
indifferent wallpaper, sketchy streets,
before our vexed disquiets over meaning
and what you thought you should have said
before she went out the door, looking down.
Let us now praise the teleology of fire:
We are ash, our elements reprised
to ivy, rice, blue dragonflies,
and all flying things who show us how to move
past doors that seem closed fast against us.