not far from where i lit the fire,
and sunrise wipes the crusty sleep from ember eyes,
is a whittled smile so perfect in its prescience,
as to be whittled sure from lies.
for nothing under sun is prescient, knows the day
ahead of days.
nor is the master-maker choreographer of ends
and all the ways from ways.
i should have snuffed the flare when chance allowed
or shushed the banging skies
tho giving deity the dice to roll
was man’s first choice, however grave unwise.