This Fire

This Fire

This Fire

No one loves you more . . . more . . . more . . .    
There were sincere lies everywhere placed directly before
the next step. Does everyone pretend, part of alive
I am proposing words – All structures have crumbled
in earliest death. I’m crossing the yellow sands
It’s so hard to know without relating it, to you
shaping a heart, take hold of me and someone says
I don’t get it! You don’t have to have love,
or you do, which? I don’t think you do; before
the explosion? I was here without it and have been in
many places loveless. I don’t want you
to know what I’m really thinking or do I, before
creation when there might be no “I knew”
Everything one’s ever said not quite true. He or she be-
trays you; why you want to hurt me . . . bad
Want to, or just do? Treason was provoked
everywhere even here, by knowing one was one and
I was alone, a pale hue. The sky of death
is milky green today, like a poison pool near a
desert mine. Picked prickly pear fruit and I
tasted it, then we drove on, maybe to Yarnell.
These outposts where I grew up; I didn’t do that
I have no . . . identity, and the love is an object
to kick as you walk on the blazing bare ground, where . . .    
sentimental, when what I love, I . . . don’t have that one
word. This fire all there is . . . to find . . . I find it
You have to find it. It isn’t love, it’s what?