Their faces in the light of the fire
are transformed not in a way
that is other, but in a way that is more
not the glory of angels or saints
but of unmasked humans
their secret eyes and lines
set in fire by fire.
the trees are an etching
of all the hands that have
reached beyond and to
and the answer falls softly
between their fingers
and their rasping lips
collect ice
Brett looks into a distance that is
obscured by snow and says
the god I usually pray to is Aaron,
my college roommate
and the fire transforms
the wood to iterations
of itself
and when you tend to it
you leave soft shadows
on your cheeks where you
touch after the tending
These are the days you will never
know again
these are the only days that matter
because they will get you to where
you are going.
where you are going is a thing
you look at all the time
but in the looking the definition
disappears and you are left
with your rods and cones
fighting over what to see
and all the girls are lovely and rosy cheeked
and waiting for someone to ask
them to dance.
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