The Fire Ritual

Standard

He found himself suddenly
prostrated before the Sun’s
singular authority.
Voices echoed.
It was Summer.
And strange music… Lips tingling.
He watered his head.
He achieved an ache
few are capable of.
And then dropped his organ in the gorge.
The young man
with the gum in his mouth
forges ahead into the fire
his hands have shaped.
Pale Earth drapes the pallor.
He came from squalor
and lives as a rag
amid fog and disgust.
So much disdain painted over sky.
The question bursting from his rancid eye.
Who folds what face into a square?
His face he flecked
with bruises, boredom.
He burned up good.

-r. miller

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