Walking the labyrinth of dried lava

Pele’s braids

Feet on the edge of burning.

 

The head meditates

while the waves crash in

trying to wake the sleepwalker.

I

a random speck on the edge of a crater.

When there is nothing left to plunder,

nothing left to analyze, pick apart, objectify, report, gossip upon,

I

a fading voice calling above the crater,

I

Like Pompeii, falling into the wind,

I

ashen, silent.