The August sun dawns on seed-laden ground
To bless these green hands, in radiant pride,
With a matchbox. Callow, restless hands—crowned.

“The End times are coming!” the churchboy cried,
So my brothers dance around the flicker
And across the walls of the hearth inside

This tomb, where the summer flowers bicker
Until they meet a red-rose-scorching bloom.
My brothers call out: “Now here’s the kicker:

Four seasons for what? Four seasons for whom?
Will the August son ignite his mother?
Who ordains the priest who ordained her womb?”

Our young churchboy did not want another
Marriage to fire (dust’s death and blood aging).
Blinking through smoke, he tries to smother—

The fire is raging. The fire is raging
And I must ask, why hast thou for
Fire forgets before forgiving for
Fire from this day forward
Fires for better and for
Worse and four fires
Until solemn fire
Vows for fire
And four

“I thirst,” I heard.

Is my last breath in August? My last word
To the sun? I will remember this age
Triumphant and the dawn’s ending preferred:
For just a split second, free from the cage.
Let the embers pouring over this land
Paint budding flowers like the winds paint sand.