You flew through the front door, the screen door came crashin
when I tried to follow you home.
You can’t remain whole if you mingle your ashes.
Each phoenix must burn up alone.

By the time I met you, you’d already died
a dozen or two times or so,
and I had grown tired of all that I’d tried
a hundred and two years ago

So I set your wing, and gave you a name
and dressed all your blisters and burns.
But I never followed you into the flame,
I just waited for you to return.

I told you how all the world’s primitive cultures
worshipped the sun as creator,
and I told of the stars’ churning furnances
how all of our matter was made there.

We followed the path, the feathery traces
like lines of a lyric poem.
It looped and we doubled back on our paces
till we found ourselves back home.

A phoenix should not be a low-flying bird
but sometimes you doubt your own wings.
The moon, you could make in a day and a third,
but the sun is a whole different thing.

By the time you left me, you’d already died
enough times for me to learn
that phoenixes, like the moon and the tide
move in circles, so I let you turn.

I told you how all the world’s primitive cultures
worshipped the sun as creator,
and I told of the stars’ churning furnances
how all of our matter is made there.

I’ll burn our image in one thousand fashions
till the sun takes us back in --
carbon to carbon and ashes to ashes,
we’ll be together again.