Not for there to be fire, consuming
everything entirely; we leave that for
the sky, who always has the right
to a wisp interrupting a plain expanse, or to
partial darknesses. We leave it to
the tectonics to arrange the vistas,
knowing full well not to trouble if at no height
can we turn in a completed circle. We already know
there are no perfect circles in nature,
nor in art. And there is no conflagration,
either, only the searing trail
of a flame glimpsed behind a closing door.
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