prometheus — light crammed between his jaws

licking up the insides of his teeth

scratching enamels in their

his climb — ran triumphant

meek made resplendent tossing

the ember from his mouth and

great golden blooms sprouted into the loam

        fire.

        now man’s — where the gods decreed

        cried you will worship us and

        you will be cold at our feet —

        deeply and truly held

        in those calloused mud clay palms

prometheus shackled now

bloody and torn upon the broken word

but unforgotten

a willing martyr for —

        the hearth and the heat and the cooking fire

        and the healing touch and the red reflection and

        the salvation and the flame

                and the warmth

        the warmth is worth it

        the warmth lingers