Don’t try this at home,
look at the cinders,
the words you can’t listen to,
the moment you can’t decide,
the open question, the
who-you-are question, questioned,
the speech the tongue
in humility can’t recognize.
They burn up what they tell.
My nerves are trails of gunpowder,
rantings at the door.
They incinerated Europe
for a hundred years
and gouged a chimney
through the sky, still
visible today, the untold
souls fly up.
In the beginning was the emptiness of fire
calling out for things to devour.
And in the end, and
in the end,
I don’t know what you could say.