the ancient oak on which we sit aflame,
tempestuous acid gales corroding oxytocic bonds,
our vision tapers and our candles dim.
mist blackens, seems to conceal not an arcadia but
an impending age of infinite death,
destruction, despotism — desert…
a regime of cruelty, until mercy strikes:
the tree’s reduced to ashes, the crackling ceases
with a final pathetic wheeze
from the last of the moisture trapped inside the wood.
doubtless, this is a clear vision
if we opt to gaze into the fire, divining, mourning.
but, perhaps our candles are really very stubborn,
perhaps our links too strong to deliquesce
from hollow, barking winds, mere blunted whispers,
or acquiesce to the great slaughterbench.
and perhaps it may well be that utopia exists
in the domain of triangles and rhombuses —
waiting to be summoned,
aching for birth,
needing to be —
and yes, perhaps, it, like the ideal shapes,
has no place in the world of scum & dirt & imperfections,
but perhaps our absurd Sisyphean struggle
as the midwives of an eden of our own
is a three-sided triangle,
the fire a pale moon ignorant of the dawn,
each tiny light a dogged, radiant sun.
and now, a final, urgent observation:
the longer that we sit and stare
at the spectacle of the flame,
the faster it grows and multiplies;
the harder it is to contain.