Burning fuel sheds smoke into the sky,
turning the starfield into an even darker
view of the time/space continuum.
Inside the metal door heats, sometimes
to cherry red, emitting its own waves
like a private negative sea.
A shovel reclines on a bed of coals,
wooden handle stained by grime,
sweat, coal dust light as a bruise,
softer than a whisper in the late night,
when the pipes sound as a choir,
moaning through their courses,
hidden between the surety promised by
walls. The sun is also a furnace,
boiling gases that charm over damp grasses,
make the tulip fold open,
dries the t-shirt hung on a rope.
We burn alike all the others heat up,
Between us, a single flame dices on
Our lives, gambling for an enduring spark.