nothing like
the sun
wrapped in
clouds the color of
rotted orange rinds,
ashes give
us a coat
an aroma
of singed death,
television news
about how
to wash
your cars,
save the paint job
as cedars
and chaparral
blind every eye
on the clock,
no one home
because there
is no home
left to be in,
all you can do
is watch
the flames
take the hills
and the houses
that were
built on a dare
over a canyon
where wind races
up and gives
life to embers
and heightens
every wagging
tongue of flame,
the tongues
of fire
are wagging over
our heads
as we wonder how
this could have happened,
the fire
threatens to
take us down to
the water line,
dances at the edge of a
coarse, blackened beach,
wood shingles
are cracked
and brittle and
ready to be converted
to energy that
finds its path of least resistance,
the sky is every color of
factory stacks
pouring out an atmosphere
of rust with the heat,
civilians in surgical masks
buying water,
more reports on what
do about the
paint jobs threatened
with ruin
every time ash
and smoke won't obey
and abate,
stadiums
full of tax payers
pulling up a
piece of the turf,
third base for
a pillow,
phones that no longer ring,
a scratchy throat,
a prickly lung,
every minute of a life
in smoke
and raining
as particles over
the city you grew up in,
vigils without candles.