I.

And I have burned all my fingertips off on the log ends
and my lips blowing fire back into the face of the fire
and the ash flew and fell like snow and my hair was white

I keep the candles burning until they burn out
and then it is morning and there is no more ink
no more heat even and I gather the ashes to my
face and breathe in what warmth remains

and there is soot lining my lungs and smoke
lining my nose and wood lining my throat and red
wine in the lines of my lips


II.

If this is just the interlude


III.

It's just that we were there
you and your knees and your wet eyes
and your lips cocked like a gun
that no one knows is bulletless
and I was there too with my hands
palmed to catch whatever words
were too much for only our ears to hold

and it was in a basement, many layers underground
and the book was old and the smell of it reached us
and was not unlike the smell of ash and bone
and wet leaves under wet leaves
and in it was everything we had always known

the beating from above was sure and strong
but we were not frightened
and the candles made the room look
like a page from the book we held
and there was bread and wine
the sacraments and sustenance