The man made of ashes told us all about it:
the red slab
the sky became—the glow echoed creamy
behind his eyelids for
he never knew how long—and the castiron clap
when all of it fell. He was lucky,
he tells us, that he was standing
still, when they cracked
the rock around him centuries after
he still had his shape, though all the color
had faded when his
eyelids burned. It’s not the mountain,
he says, everyone heard
it echo in the days
before, molten bubbles shattering
on slopes of vaulted stone, mountains like that
could happen to anyone. He hopes
he’s answered all our questions. We finger
the lines in our palms where he shook
our hands. He walks over
the bridge and his footprints blow away.
