The Fire

Lightning sets it blazing

for days—the prairie

fire outside Springfield

circling the city like

an army of demons

and herds of buffalo

run through the streets

in broad daylight now

tearing up the fences

as the pheasants holler

flying over the rooftops

at night when the stars

grow invisible for this

larger new light of flames

nearby and smoke fills

the drapes and everyone

smells of char even these

perfume bottles on Mary’s

dresser—the green and blue

ornate glass is coated with

as she dresses and suddenly

thinking again—undresses

while the naked man kisses

her neck this morning

that is bright from the flames,

so bright only the clocks

know it is about midnight

actually and it doesn’t matter

for a little while longer if

night is day or the world burns.