We burn the rings. We burn the hummocks threaded up
from sand back down to it. We knit their manyed
peaks into the flame, a fire beating from our hands.
Its fingered blades. The isthmic strands we grip
that weave the hummock in. From heartring
dead. From younger rings that age in lockstep
round, proceeding. Radiate: the mice twitch
burrow into run. The smoke unfurls its plane.
The fires constellate, and lifting, dredge
those yawning pupils open on the sand.
The one to one that touches in its bright makes many
scurrying out to scent what good direction. To unspool
out the hum. The hummock’s rustle frays the strains
each pulsebeat measures. Each hurries from
that feathered mouth that hisses as it preens. no
no very bad and blooming the sky gluts thick
and drops. The what for whom sheer wanting sprouts
its limbs, appends and swells the objects in its reach.
It rises them. The hummock bursting upwards
by that bright, then bustles, shines and caves. The far
and farther till the air sinks up. The shadows
planted down await their fated objects in the clearing.
Note: Spinifex is a grass that grows in hummucks in Australia. When the hummock ages, its inner circle collapses, resulting in a ring.