The Volcano versus The Sad Man

He undressed the flames that built nests atop his shoulders,

father volcano, a misshapen pupil leaking a reflection of tulips positioned

against the sunken part of a mattress, across from the window is a scene

filled with science, the DNA of a sad man & his last words — a stolen life

whose pores bled plums and a discourse for piety — forever unsure,

surrendered to doubt, struck by the syringe of his girl’s other lover / me

and the sad man are alone now in a dream, but we both still wonder if the

volcano can see us? He memorized these valleys and the gravel roads I run

down in hopes of finding you waiting inside an old farmhouse — so I think

he knows where I will be, handsy and with a baby, asleep as he stalks my

memory of the worst thing he ever did, of which I did not ask, only the

volcano knows why he killed the sad man / back in the bedroom he is

naked of his fire, but still carries a spark inside his flat fingertips for when

he touches me, because I cannot leave him, or the room, if I am made of ash —

and if those I love he's turned back into stardust.