cxvi

fire across the mountain
will not come

over the slope, the smoke
and the spirit

from the grass and brush

makes it hard to talk

to breathe, darkens the sky

rests in the lungs,

burnt and restless,

covers the road.

through the haze--the

roads blocked, and

burning,

the trees, rise dark and

thin, but

their top branches wave

above the heat, 

--the rocks glow, 

reflect flame,

the slopes rise silent

and steady, 

cant quietly up against

the gray sky,

                     the sharp

smell of fall cuts 

across them,

the threads and fragments

of some other history,

gleam on the ground,

in the dust,

the sedge is burning and

the ash is blowing,

no history is a necessity,

gather a few