Fire Company
The
creosote caught
as
if kerosene-soaked.
Up
went the brittlebush,
the
mesquite quick as
kettle
steam. God-gone
the
ironwood while cattle
ranchers
stood rapping
their
wedding rings
on
the white rail.
Holy shit, holy shit!
they
sing
to
the angelic jet
spreading
its red
retardant
around
the
housing tract
like
a loved one’s
ashes.
Dust and
lightning,
gold
smoke
scrolling
like
a calendar
into
the sky
until
the sky
is
choked
with
time, with years,
which
torch-touched
under
the bursage
burn
for days,
catch
flight as if
no
flesh had
ever lived them.
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