(Five feet above the ground,
there is a set of shoes,
floating without a body;
the noose-shaped rope
caressing a spirit tight…)

If coal were
a sentence
then surely,
it’d be this one:

a murmur. A murmur
as loud as a shout.
A whisper
that will travel
years.

(Smoke, smoke, smoke.
Dust in it all.
Who said it was too early to die?
Who said that it was too early to die?
Who said)

If soot, if a burning house were
turned into words,
then surely, surely,
it’d it’d it’d be

spit it out
like bile
and hope
that it will be
smoke in the wind
carried downhill
to the heart of the city
where the jury will learn
to judge

and where I
will be hung.