ROOF IS ASKEW, THE SKY FALLS IN

Now the world is turned like a pig on a spit.
Not even metaphor can save you. And all

your hearts are gathered in the coals. The blue
eye of the flame crouches low; the blue smell

of burning climbs past you, travels through
memory, itself sticky with fever and soot.

And you wander like that, like some blown smoke.
Straw shoes. Birthright. Not even a grave to tend.

First published in Bellevue Review