weaved by flaming tongues above.

We twine like twigs
in a basket, in fire.
Smoke framing every
movement-- roping around
our eyes, lips-- each
sip of faith. I limp, You carry
my limbs in the order
I surrender them
to the flames. We speak
of moon more than morning--
preparing for chapped winter
freezing the tip
of tongue, the rind of repentance.