As silty pure as snow over high mountain
chiseling crags in June; the grit of brook
gathering down to bubble if not froth
into the scouring waves, resplendently

on time. As curious as fire dying as it
catches and holds; the pop and ting
and collapse; all that warmth it gives
and still it wants, embers in the mildest

red-ache of breezes. As presumptuous
as the tomb as an altar; my idols are living
without testament, reproving themselves

and disproving others, also themselves.
As quiet as dehydration, and a fall of ash.
As bright as the concept of a black hole.