Flesh fade, and mortal trash
Fall to the residuary worm; world’s wildfire, leave but ash
—Gerard Manley Hopkins
Across the street roofers swarm over hot shingles
chattering in Spanish as they hammer or yank out nails.
I understand the details of their work as little
as I follow their words. It’s all tone, like praise
or chastisement to a dog. It’s a sort of song, lovely as flame,
and yes, I’m the dog. We’re all scurrying in the fire.