if you try and burn some
scope into a tepid fire,
think too of the wisps
and inarticulate lops of
smoke that are somewhat late
but too want to be set aflame.
the indigenous is not the vision
that tunes again and again to
a changed sun, but one that hums
the constant hum and brings light
threads of care to a muckish
swamp bowing to a feudal deity.
what tugs your heartstrings – let them not be
pearly whites and glamor squeals punctuated
by oohs of a sad priest gladdened by sparkling
wine. Let them be fired up by the glint of
small eyes and smaller tears, smaller still
the hearts that shrink at the smell of fear.