Coronation

The crown was lost in sand,
rose gold in the ancestor of glass,
and sand filled the circle like a head
while holding it in its hands.

The city burned sky without words,
the brand pressed to its thigh
having been styled through iron
into a shape that set it apart

from the rest, in this case, towers
without names on their sides,
but all knew they were called fire
and flame. The sun seemed lower

for a time until they realized it ran
its fingertips down the city’s panes
without leaving prints. Their hands
so dry, oil gone, slipped in the sand.