Fire harvests my dreams

as God is spoken

when ashes stir the wind.


Women wash themselves

in such residue,

knead bread from the chalk

of the bone dead

while singing an anthem

in keening dirge.


Each day arrives to me

weary, and I cover it

with shrouds of a dried heart.


The bird that is silent

is the only one that can

wait its hunger out

in myrtle branches

emptied of their black berries.