we buzz like an unsteady circle,
standing on stumps and razor blades,
staring in anger
at the campfire in a fight for its survival,
we’re among bottles, cigarette butts
and feces from sleeping pets —
a cake on the ground
to be ground
by boots and bare feet.
and there are stars
pulling on my arms,
gliding I hover,
levitating above clatter,
the incessant chatter
about futures that won’t outlive the embers
of fictions told by the splendor
of flames,
now splintering and lumbering
flicking ash on our cheek
aging us forty days
each night we gather