Rungs for a Private Sun

In the pit, the air is a kept secret—
packed clay breathing rust and beetroot.

A ladder leans down like a question
somebody once asked and forgot to answer.

He kneels where the earth goes darkest,
palms stained with mica and grit,
and strikes a small bright animal
from a matchhead’s throat.

Flame licks the bottom rung first—
a neat, obedient tongue,
then a louder orange that wants applause,
then blue at the edges, the colour of stubbornness.

His face holds that hard, clear weather:
not fear, not crying,
but the stare you give a lock
while deciding you are the key.

Above him, the hole’s walls are murals:
veins of clay like marbling in fruit,
roots writing cursive into the dirt,
pebbles set like candy in a cracked cake.

The fire makes its own gallery light—
hot gold skating across shovel-scar textures,
turning each grain into a tiny planet
with one brief, bright day.

Smoke climbs the ladder’s spine,
finds the open circle of sky,
and paints it in bruised violets,
as if dusk has been summoned early.

He feeds the burn with patience—
listens for the nails to ping and soften,
watches the rung bow into a blackened smile,
feels heat crowd his knuckles; sap-sweet, iron-bitter.

Ash flutters down and freckles his sleeves,
a new rung-work, weightless,
as if the ladder is learning another language
and forgetting the old.

As if it was never meant for leaving,
only for measuring depth,
only for counting how far a boy can go
without being followed.

When the last rung gives,
the fire settles lower, satisfied:
a small sun cupped in the soil’s mouth—