Besides, Little Goat, You Can’t Just Go Asking for Mercy

Besides, little goat, you can't just go asking for mercy.
With a body like that, it's easy to forget

about the spirit—the sun unfolding over your coat, your throat
too elegant for prayer. I like it fine, this daily struggle

to not die, to not drink or smoke or snort anything
that might return me to combustibility. Historical problem:

it's harder than you'd think to burn even what's flammable.    
Once, I charged into your body and invented breath. Or,

I stumbled into your mouth and found you breathing. When I left,
I left a lozenge of molten ore on your tongue. Stony grain-pounder,

sleepy pattern-locator, do this: cover your wings, trust
the earth, spread your genes. Nothing here is owned. The ladder

you're looking for starts not on the ground but several feet below it.