toss gasoline on bedroom pyre. collect the ash from our hair
and divine our future in the peppered remains. we see with
limpid eyes still touched with the shine of madness and of hate,
bite marks in our knuckles and slivered light stuck in our palms.
we throw brass down the well though there is gold in our veins.
we raise splintered fingers in the air to test the patterns of wind
and of words. headway made when we forgo cardinal directions
and leave the decisions up to the atmosphere. the sky will sweep
the flames clean and even these wishful vagaries will settle like
our teeth, rootless and bloody, to the ground.