Saturday, November 02, 2019


--first and last lines by Mevlana Jelalludin Rumi

How does part of the world leave the world?

It starts with a spark,
a branch, thrown against power lines by a dry wind.
Then flames, in brush, tall grass, drought-killed trees.
Leaping from ridgetop to ridgetop faster than a car can drive.
Swallowing whole towns. Spitting out acres of smoking ash.
Spawning the language of disaster:
Firestorm. Fire-tornado.
Evacuate. Shelter in place.
It sounded like a freight train. It sounded like the end of the world.

Then the news coverage. The clatter of helicopters.
The roar of the fire crews’ chainsaws. The names of the dead.
The whine of the camera drones. The drone of the talking heads.
All hang like smoke over this place that is no longer a place.
Every day the sun rises out of low word-clouds
into a burning silence.

Available! High-Voltage Lines, Knocking from Inside

No comments: