The poets ask you

Can you sit still on fire?

The match made

To burn you both

And all you sit

Still in rooms that should

Be smoldering

Arm chairs engulfed

Afghans’ to ashes

Sit still

In your inferno

Feed those flames

With the kindling

Of immobility

And the beams of

Every still structure

And un-beating heart

In all the rooms you ever

Been

Sit still