It takes great heat

To release the grip

And spill fecund odds games

Without regret or cruelty.

The gobbled up,

Blown away

Unactualized mess — cruel.

A dust of potentiality.

So, we are held tightly.

Oh, but when it works,

Sweet baby pitch pine,

We pine in high pitches,

And disappear as ghosts

In the new forest,

Spears through the ash.

And the new heat comes,

Again and again

When it sees us holding tightly

To burn and build

And spill the uncountable newness

We think is singular,

But just one dime for one dozen.