Inflammable

Then, as is the wont,
of dismembered wood, voicing their lament
of embers, to sightless skies
the limbs of trees die;

Again, sparks rise
in a Braille curse
and staying mute, the skies
stoic as the Gods, say nothing.

I could have put a hand
in there, with my palms shoveled
the live coals;
we have done

Labour of a kind,
before, writing


P.S. -- This is not incomplete.