A Kind of Furnace

Storm surge from disaster, mouths move but never speak
The story goes eyes wide focused all just a next one
Once I did test your tendons full grown with roots down
Peel away, peel away fingers reaching for

We were running towards a catastrophe, which itself was a kind of furnace in whose heat identities and fates would buckle into new shapes

At the base of the balloon was a basket in which there was a boy, and by the basket, clinging to a rope, was a man in need of help