your hand is two hands, your hat is two hats

your hand is two hands, your hat is two hats,
everyone socializes to a pagan rhythm:
we must place the flammable here,
and choose someone to drop the torch.

you may well someday place the rhythm in order,
place the order in rhythm, put the rhythm to chaos,
bring chaos to order, but in these walls

(the house rocks like a drunk, is present like
a shiny object in the street to the walking poor)

in these walls your welcome swells, slows, and stops.

you have lived here too much, placed an extra fist in the plaster,
and left the question's answer beyond doubt--

whenever you are too present,
you will forever be thrown out.
all this in the time a torch takes to fall.

the liquid shudders into flame,
tiny tidal swells erupt angrily.
this will burn a long time.
nothing can burn for eternity.