his bones resurface from the ashpit whenever I think I've crushed his final nib & forklifted more lush flames onto his grounds last week it was a hand passed itself up through char & cupped compacted crater lip clunk clunk thud like a catfish that won't die for several hammer swings to head it flopped & flipped its way past roots which w(oul)d've recoiled if they c(oul)d long ago—cedars don't believe in vengeance don't understand how remembered fires are passed by force of skin to skin & spread if not contained by lighting them again
Written in response to Big Tent Poetry’s Monday Prompt for 22 November 2010.
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