Monday, July 6, 2015

Slow Burn


Slow Burn

The fire
chewing through pew
and cross.
                                              We are okay with this.
                                              We are okay with this.
The smoke, thick
and dark, tongues lolling
from scorched-sill lips.
                                              We are okay with this.
                                              We are okay with this.
The night sky,
forced again to swallow
blossoms thought left
in Birmingham's salted
earth, this,
such a different south.
                                              We are okay with this.
The way a church, a
church, and a church
resume some forestalled
dance, bright and star-like
for the luminaries liable to
wink from the tops
of their flagpoles.
                                              We are okay with this.
As if the trees
didn't moan at the whiff
of timber and brimstone,
didn't wriggle the limbs
ringed with rope burn,
having seen this all before,
but...
                                              We are okay with this.
                                              We are okay with this.

                                              We are okay with this.

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