Some idle place on that prairie you and I drift, flames on a candle of wet dirt and licking the wick of branches dotted in blood. / some idle place on that prairie you and I sit, high off the ground and without a seat but from our burning the scent of peppercorn and detergent wafts, and when we turn to dust we drift down with the wax into the nearby lake. / some deep cave below we rest, gone.