Another brushfire belches acrid smoke
into our lungs.
The city stained with ash,
gray as the sky.
Last time fourteen young men were swept up
in the blaze and killed in an instant.
The town held a candle light vigil.
Oxygen, in the end.
Red sun setting, mirrored in flames
that creep up, floor by glass-paneled floor.
From the top of the hill, the city burns,
before night’s coolness fades all to silhouette.
Poignant films are planned,
imbued with misplaced resonance
that no one is looking for.
Based on a true story.
These are the facts, or, most of the facts.
The rest we enhanced for entertainments sake.
What really happened, guess we’ll never know.
Just appreciate the artistry.
From pulp to press to printout,
curling waves of bleached wood
cut fresh from the soil
some miles away.
Clouds hang mixed with residue,
a roiling mass, a vortex turning.
In the eye of the storm a woman dances.
Doesn’t she know?
Careless how quick we forget
after the darkness has passed.
Infinite sky, space;
Hurtling out into blackness expanding
and disappearing over the event horizon,
lit by flares of gas and dust.//