Empty Quarter #7

When the sun exploded—

                Nothing near, nor since—

The desert came last—floods foremost,

Scalding seas across whatever was.

You can see this, still, in the dogged

 bleakness—

We blunder on—

diffident now,

Unsure of the edges,

Or if any exist.

Yet deep in the grit, the grainy altar, whatever                                            

Falls through your hands is already

Re-assembling itself into another world,

And needs nothing of you—though we have all,

At once, caught fire, and fallen through the sky,

Clouds of slate and ash, a bit of skin,

An eyelash. 

There will always be wind,

Wildly respirating  lungs,  iron-oxide

 bellow tending  the fire,

scorching the world as it ever was,

 or will be.