Our backyard cottonwood’s rent in twain by your wayward lightning bolt,

and the shy stud farmer who long ago parceled off his land and gave calico

kittens to us free of charge's haystacks go up, touched off by your three sons 

monkeying with a flint igniter recovered in a crawl space’s gravel–a bright 

idea only the pond survived, fringed in the carbon of a sin, an O upon the 

wild field's tiger striped char,

                                             and when night falls, that’s where our world
collects, slurped back into the blistered quicksilver mirror, I face life

without parole, a priceless moon built to hang by anything and everything

unclean, having to slap my siblings off their high horse, through a black

wishbone’s twin forking lyric: arson was your séance, The Hidden He
smiting us and all who seek ascension by His grace and gilt ladder.