I saw the smoke go up.
I wasn't the smoke.
I was the afterword.
Ash, we wondered.
And the ram that undid the door
to the city, the flummox of dreams
snapping brittle and dry
like tinder afloat. Fire-sea:
what happens after you die?
You don't. It's the others who
wink out, one by one. Then
you go alone into the salt.
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