There is a desire within me,
a rich burning spur
which in my side
is planted.

Reaching, steady, patient,
weaving like vines for sunlight,
its heat,
the moon.

Roots,
cold and beckoning,
dip the cosmic water
and break space with a
word.

Sparks stir
in the dark,
kin with stars,
Icarus ash vanishing.

I am that ash,
that shell cast
and waiting for a casket.

A wicker man
with map hands
holding a coal heart
in a flower petal basket.

It's tragic..
but laugh!
We need the wheat,
but there's magic
in the chaff.