Phoenix

He came shuddering from his home in the ashes,

Already settled and resigning themselves

To the late wind.

The field hands saw him, watching

That thrashing dance of something

That has known the pain of fusion

As it spawned his heavier elements.

He sang, it seemed, in counterpoint

To seeping asphalt and

The ubiquity of oil stains

On a flower. Already they have

Sized him, catalogued him

In basement cabinets. Someone shouted

And they watch his tongue flicker

Into the evening, tasting for

Hints of fireflies to pulse against

The entropy—but

There was none, and he shrieked

And entered night hemorrhaging

Into the ground. The fire

Had long since eaten itself,

There was smoke still palatable

In the air—and someone whispered how

The sun that day had lingered

Above the trees, as if uncertain

Whether there was anything worthwhile to be found

Beneath the horizon.