Shrine

When will the long watch be done?
The peach and rose clouds at dawn

This dawn came from the fires that flared
By the road and burned all night.

There’s just so much in the air
These days that the sky is lit

Like a meal, less and less stern,
More and more like soft fruit flesh,

Ripe with hints of grapes and pears,
Bowl turned on edge, on our heads.

The more skies glow, the more sifts
From the air to dust the shrine,

Fine ash on the skin to go
With the ash it meant to hold.