Scrolls of your second earth, unraveled

by my slow, incendiary hands.

The sky in your name—sliding down

scarps of blueness: the sky

overroaring wheat.

Do not ask—for what. Say nothing—

watch. Parades of the beaten,

for whom I tore apart

the drum. Your other life, glowing in the fuse

of this one. The unbaked loaves: the retina’s lack

of solace.