Inquiry into Cinder

We're not yet at the end of gray
history. The fuses lit long ago

still flare through the streets.
The fast-moving faces behind

the shadows are still set to strike,
and more dogs will be untethered.

Perch in the high branches,
above where the ropes stripped

the bark, so you can be a witness
to whatever comes next.

You own a part of this.
Don't skirt the festering things,

the concertina wire and sidearms
that separate, the ashes

of set fires rising as black birds
from timothy fields.

When you wake in the shivering
dark, sit up and wait. Maybe

you'll be a witness when the air
thins of its noise. Maybe you'll be

a witness to the first blue hacking
open the night along its center.



Poem originally appeared in Little Star. Reprinted with the permission of the author. All rights reserved.