the tide of grass embers grows slow (burned books)

a dozen fires put out, maybe more
through the scope of power and charm
eliminations and parted love, delving
the tide grows slow by day each day
salvaged creation-truncated organ pipes
matter and sycophantic scansion
bending trees with elemental brush
dotting along the finer texts’s cremation
passively knowing the green embers
the texture of the sated, chord-less velocity