I wonder if they pack the wicker ribs
of the burning man with Persephone’s gems,
sweet, sweating, burning, bursting
as the fire comes.
Like even the black tarmack does when
Pele’s blood creeps, unstoppable intensity,
to the sea.

Everything is bursting now.

The euphony of blackbirds gossiping on the wires,
the silent and solemn meeting of heron and crane
in the muddy water.
The saffron of the empty sky as it lays down
on the mountain.
The world is a wicker man.
Sweating.
Persephone’s gems have already burst open
and we are rolling across the world.