Spinifex Fire

mosaic burning

We burn the rings. We burn the hummocks threaded up

from sand back down to it. We knit their manyed

peaks into the flame, a fire beating from our hands.

Its fingered blades. The isthmic strands we grip

that weave the hummock in. From heartring

dead. From younger rings that age in lockstep

round, proceeding. Radiate: the mice twitch

burrow into run. The smoke unfurls its plane.

The fires constellate, and lifting, dredge

those yawning pupils open on the sand.



spinifex ring

The one to one that touches in its bright makes many

scurrying out to scent what good direction. To unspool

out the hum. The hummock’s rustle frays the strains

each pulsebeat measures. Each hurries from

that feathered mouth that hisses as it preens.   no

no  very bad and blooming  the sky gluts thick

and drops.  The what for whom sheer wanting sprouts

its limbs, appends and swells the objects in its reach.

It rises them. The hummock bursting upwards

by that bright, then bustles, shines and caves. The  far

and farther till the air sinks up.  The shadows

planted down await their fated objects in the clearing.



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*Note:  Spinifex is a grass that grows in hummucks in Australia. When the hummock ages, its inner circle collapses, resulting in a ring.*