[wpaudio url=”/audio/march13/Stanton.mp3″ text=”listen to this poem” dl=”0″]
you and I have made faces and hollow men out of the earth;
dragging together the still night air, the clumps of wood,
the ingredients of fire. we have long since given ourselves
over to the shrill pops and the burning of trunks, the shy bite
of smoke in our lungs, the squint of these underlit eyelids;
we have made ourselves part of this blackened soliloquy,
scarecrows balancing scarecrows in the fallen arches of trees.
under our rule the branches are spun and snapped, the rough
wood broken—two squat logs make a ready home for tinder
and a quick-flicked match completes it. we dart and giggle,
we guess at destruction: nothing is ceremony where the sparks
fly tall. we enjoy this fire, these haloes. we devour the squeak
and squee of burning leaves. we enjoy the sight
of many-armed martyrs falling.