Through the door broken open: smoke,
honeysuckle, ashed-over daffodils.

Nearer the coast fires barricade brush
into blackness. Your eyes clot

like knots of wax carved out
in the unmelting light. A hiss

under the floor. This is the under
-belly of our days: mercy too old for us

drained into gutterstream, a shallows
raking grooves into the soot. You

lie motionless in the morning.
A bundle of tendrils. By noon

you winnow out of the open
door & leave behind a lump of wax

too soft for the light to blade
into dying twice in one day.

P. J. Williams