rebel in a campfire cookout

I want to go back to this please:

we dance when

Flies buzz louder than organ notes
drawn from a honeycomb of strings and pedals
at the place where your fingers begin to bleed
milk and seeds, dropping roots between ivory keys.

Buttercup buds fall in heavy hail piles until the field
we stand in can hardly keep from dropping down,
plummeting to the core, an even fall
with a bowling ball hanging from each corner.

When wicker chairs come down from the attic
and our bagpipe bones drop down with rhythmic squeals
we’ll remember a steep climb, heat searing our holding hands
as we left hell fires that held no warmth.