I, Siberian Salt Reserves
There are days when the dark in my piñata chest
Bursts out like paper confetti
And rains on my garden in coal-coloured flakes
Sleep in my eyes, always at dawn
The dawn of the night is the dawn of the day
The dawn of day’s thought in this large human brain
And whenever I pick these flakes from faded grass
I wonder about that spreading green
There’s dues on gardens that grow too big
Whether or not they’re darkened with coal
And grass can be beautiful and lush and thick
But it burns – oh, it burns.
You too have that piñata, that coal, and that grass
That will burn and burn at the smallest of sparks
So, Tell me,
Why is there a candle on my windowsill?
is there a matchstick
in my hand?