Flame-built n' cured
still smoking from celestial
atomic alignment;
poured thru layers of atmosphere
to here;
dragged clouds down with me
for my clothes, stained now
black with soot to match
my hair n' eyes. Earthly body
made manifest this way
skin kilned ceramic white
by the rubbing burn of air.
Pages n' pages left in my book
there is only friction n' gravity
to tug at clouds
while I pull n' work n' flame n' drift
all with equal purpose
n' justified ends.
That quiet voice that speaks to me
of the backs of buildings
tells me the stories
of the ones who leave running.
I stare at their backs, unconvinced.
I am not of the type to flee.
I am of the roots of the trees here
the bricks of houses are a trillion
metamorphed molecules of me.
I have no home,
but I contain multitudes.
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