072: Stoking (a credo)

Concrete walls
of architecture.
Fleshy membranes
of anatomy.
Rusted beams
of structure.
Bent ribs
of gravity.

Nitrogen commutes
where lifeblood should flow;
death evicts
the unfelt Atem;
bodies shrunk in salt,
cold fireplaces;
God fetuses,
supine in jars.

The mountains bereft
of their snow crowns,
waves stolen
from the sea,
rectitude, contraption
of man's continental hands -
I invert to see,
ask to believe.

Sewer smut and scintillant sky,
ever wed by magma and lightning;
never allow
fire to starve, for
my seconds break clocks,
my nails grind walls,
my blood, of a deeper shade
of red.