What he said was, The wind
might someday be the opposite
of wound. I heard each bolt
crack. A fire in the pit
draws out its variant. The future
was found wrong, then
shoveled back. Who decides
when the possible can be
a dwelling? Someone zippers
up the stairwell. I always try
to protect my uncertainties
from experts and earlier
gods. This is a way to shape quiet.
Once in a beautiful place, it wasn’t
the beauty I heard,
but hours fire-worked
to another small beginning.
Our spirits withstand,
then move away. We rise
up and finish.