Glory

A blade of yellow grass
that burns for the loss of green;
these fading emerald chimes
like voices that insist
the blade could cut itself,
could prune vestigial dreams.

A tinsel effigy
which tells of a green that ate
of light—until it was
as though the flesh was gone;
and all there was left to take
was the sheer skin.

And so to hell with green—
to hell’s rewilding blaze
in which the bone-dry head
may roar with laughter again,
and yellow crystallize
in red.