Recipe

And we are made of fire

and we are made of dreams,

of echoes still that strangulate

of patches and of seams.

And we are found in silver

under coarse knuckles and fur,

that 11th hour drenched in sweat

in miles raced until they blur.

And we are made with glory

and we are made with change,

when it's too dark to wait for light

then we are forged with pain.

And we will grow on oceans

on peculiar notes or winds,

the underside of rusted rails

on thicker second skins.

And we are made of moments

only heartbeats strung in line,

and we are made of wishes

and of laughter, and of sighs.