IV: Burning Bush

the pressure thrum of altitudes,

the drumming beat in ears.

as weary flesh ascends the face

to summit hidden groves.

where feathertips unseen but heard

sigh through fluttered leaves.

i sit cross-legged, cliffside hung

above the place where strangers roam.

it’s tiny, grey, and so

contained

in concrete joints of streets.

like bones that cage a

flame

and hold it deep in valley ribs.

each measured breath of mountain light

lacks the air a city breathes.

it leaves me like a smoking wick

that curls in syrupy sun.

extinguished and exhaled

in secret sacrifice.

• July 2025