There Is No Shelter

 Each evening, the sins of the whole world collect here
      like a dew.
In the morning, litde galaxies, they flash out
And flame,
                 their charred, invisible residue etching

The edges our lives take and the course of things, filling
The shadows in,
     an aftertrace, through the discards of the broken world.
Like the long, slow burn of a struck match.