Earth-time, the stones

tick

in hollows of dust, the arable air

wanders far from home, barbed

wire and road

are erased. Spat

out by the burning

fever in our lungs, the Ur-seed

blooms from crystal, our vermilion breath

refracts us

into many. We will not

ever know ourselves

again. Like the light

that moves between the bars

of light

we sometimes called death,

we, too, will have flowered,

even with such

unquenchable flames

as these.