He is, you say, you say he is
and I see hard black coal teeth
biting the rage of hearth-embraced fire.

A fuel, a heat, a statement of need.
He is, I tell you, but you say,
No, no. The earth rent, he is revealed.

A casino of black smoke bets on the breeze.
I ask, Is he, is he? You think he is
Bethlehem.

A void phlegm hangs on a cough
thin compensation for every last breath – so
double down and let it ride.

He is not my concern, he is the sugar coat
the teacher of value as he bites,
as he is consumed.

As the turbine turns
the electricity between us
becomes us.

I profess a candle, I profess again
to your charming silence. Questions build
like a Tower of Babel. I understand

less and less. I imagine only daisies
growing in that fast coal-less hole.

When it rains, when the cash is collected,
when the grit of that long grift grows
into a deep icy pool.

He is you say, you say he is. That romantic
and you dance, kissless
and wanting to watch him burn
for you.