Sunday, December 30, 2007

The Burned Speak

The crashing sounds you hear are not the sea,
Nor cymbals at the far end of the band,
Nor are they people who, trying to stand,
Fell over in a sad heap, suddenly.
It might be monsters, or a lonesome tree
Attacked by flames your carelessness had fanned
Into a conflagration, eating land
Like popcorn. Check out the infirmary.

And say, is that a rabbit in your pants,
Twisting and playing, aching with desire?
Have you sunk utterly into the mire?
Amid the ashes, and the burning plants,
Those crashing sounds you hear may be the ants
Marching relentlessly into the fire.

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