I bend back to this work
after days of fire, my feet
gray with ash; swear that
these tracks, these
proofs of memory, will be more
than grief’s dust, more than tracings
of what was, instead
will become maps, urgings,
soil in which to grow — what?
Sustenance? Tinder
for new fire? Not my place
to know; I bend back
to work, always
to Work — mindful
of Fire, pushing off
my own need to Burn.
Dark Matter 
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