Frangipani Grove

When all of this has gone
away, and the sun is a silver
memory, the moon: a stone
in a sky of stones, and bones
are sand, and land is flame—
when all potential in the void
gleans some notion that it could
explode, expand, become a world
again and then collapse and
fail as ages do, even then
the heart endures
in dark throb
a flint fire
a god song.

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