Kindling

The fire-pit
an altar you kneel before,
praying it will ignite.
I know better,  
going off the trail
to get firewood.

Bat’s webbing blackens trees.
In the dark, I grope
worms slimy like viscera,
collect dry wood: light
as a stillborn�"smooth.

You are still praying
when I return. I drop the kindling
before you. In the light your eyes
are yellow marrow, fixed
on the pile: white fingers wasted, disjointed,
a starved arm the same length as ours,
a leg.
 
The aphotic altar waits for sacrifice.
Tinder-bone asks to be burned.