"Dirt Being Dirt."
"The orchard was on fire, but that
didn't stop him from slowly walking straight
into it shirtless.
You can see where the flames have foliaged here,
especially his chest.
Splashed by the moon, it almost looks like the latest proof
that, while decoration is hardly ever necessary,
it's rarely meaningless.
The tuxedo's corsage.
Fog, when lit scatteredly.
Swift from behind.
Swing of a torch.
The lone match struck, then wind shut.
How far is instinct from a thing like belief?
Not far, apparently.
At what point is believing so close to knowing
that any difference between the two isn't worth
the fuss, funnily.
'A tamer of wolves tames no foxes,' he used to say,
as if avoiding the question but never meaning to.
You broke it.
Now wear it broken."