Firelight

Staring at the fire, I am
warming. Wonder if the sticks will
soon forgive the fire, if the
fire thanks the wood that quickly
melts to embers, maybe trying
to remember windy days of
growing at the sun.       
                                The sun has
become and landed on the trees.
Like earth, the trees are sunlight that
has cooled and coalesced, alive
because of daylight, but prepared
and going to combust or rot,
and either scatter or decay.

At War

At war, enormous symbols are

not bigger than a fist or hand

grenade. A shield is useless if

you do not wield a spear, and stand

alone against a sea of brave

and hateful enemies. At war

we are reducing things to an

absurd and truthful metaphor.

The whole idea is that I

am right because I have a sword.

My Eyes

My eyes are made of windows.

The glass is making rainbows
in spectral boxes locked in
the boxes I put stock in.

I started looking closely;
the windows are almost me:
a choice between the same thing
and nothing but renaming.

It's either or it's nothing
at all, and God is bluffing,
because I see the truth by
reflections in my two eyes.