An endless field swollen under uprooted trees;
the wind never stops to visit us anymore,
dry leaves left crushed under wandering steps.
What am I supposed to do with death?
Twisted limbs lie tangled in mud as we inhale
a morning sky showering this hollowed space
in tears of gasoline—the vapors break our sight.
I will hold the box if you will strike the match.
The fire tastes sweet over my lips like spring sap
licked straight from the trunk, and everything burns
while the green in your eyes remains unscathed.
Clovers sprout over these bones, and we are lost.
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