Such Fires, Such Ash, We Thought That All Would Die

The skies grow faint and fine,
Less blue than bone—old bone foam,
Bone dust, ash—a grey-white frieze

Blued at the edge and up high,
Like the whites of my cracked eyes.
We have come to burn the bones

Of the woods and, with them, homes,
Cars, roads, tar, signs, our own bones.
Lead melts and runs. It’s our sky,

Now, gift to the world made us,
The world to which we give back
Ash, cracked whites, great swathes of dust.