Volcanoes have a rough
way with words.
They spit fire, they spit rock;
they emit a thousand heresies
against the lives of men—
the lie of death, the lie
of prosperity, the lie of plenty
that comes without ruin
Toxic gas rises above molten heat.
The guts of earth spill free
to scour land for new growth,
fresh food for some creature
not yet born
Water collects there in pools,
drawing great clouds of birds
to seed this rock
in guano rising
like a white tide
So words
are cleared,
and man,
and time
