When the mountains are burning
We are flushed with the anger of living,
Standing on the narrows above
A pit of unknowing and a collection
of halos gathered around
our souls like the demons
of the ego, unexplained
deities
We recognize as our own
But refuse to own, orphans
Relegated to canals and
Tiny railroads where the freight
They carry is transported
To those we love
With the least possible
interruption
So that the pain will have
no dominion.
Let us dance there, together.
We will be naked as art is naked .
And we shall have children
Born of this dancing that shine
With the same glow we allow
To consume us as we touch
Eternity in loving one another.
Saint Paul drunk with fear
For his own life, admonishing
Us that our beds are
Temporary at best,
But beloved refuges
Where we may lay each to each,
Watching these very mountains
burn
And feel that it is a privilege
To stand near the fire,
Not burning, but singing.
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