She holds a candle to The Trestle
and waits impatiently for the flame
to take. They say she was profligate
with time and thought;
Why did she leave the pathway open
for so long?
To return In sentimental rendezvous?
These are the paths of the unforgiving.
Unlike the wounds that she left bleeding
This burning will not harm nor scar
as the words she wrote at eighteen,
muted in the sweat and tears of uniform.
The hemostatic flames begin their healing.
A strata of tears, once petrified in leaves
of shale, begin to blister and pale
weeping their release through fissures
of dusk. Page by page. The warp and fade.
She stops beating: The Bulls Heart.
The doors of Nautilus swing open, unhinged
hemorrhaging silt and solitude.
Rising from the slate, unsheathed
Tiger moths bellow to the thermal springs
and footstone sky nods obsidian
to the smoking pyre. As
Time turns its felsic heel to rain,
Befalls each footprint to the tinder step,
Recalls to mind in thought, a different fate.