Waiting for My History
Prior to this poem, I made another here,
but fire took it.
It was a poem about Prometheus, fennel stalk
stuffed with stolen flame, the one
Zeus sniffed out too late.
It was Prometheus, and liquid heat
beaten into breastplate bronze
tight against his body.
My word's the only proof of time before now,
of the sly theft, and this new place without gods.
The poem fire took.
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