The couch is burning on the front lawn.
It was a pretty blue.
Now, it is ravishing,
the kind of blue that is silence.
It is consumption.
The old one—
well, it was
powder-puff.
There were tiny white flowers,
so small.
I’m not sure what kind.
These were accompanied
by specks of beige,
nondescript skews,
all quite pleasant enough.
The flames in Granite City
pulled the car to a stop.
Sometimes things are so
cliche you begin to
understand why.
Lost so far from everywhere
and the road empty of anything,
but you.
Though there had to be
tens, hundreds,
working . . .
that concrete monstrosity,
somewhere in the bowels
of those giant towers,
at the bottom of those stacks,
keeping it roaring,
surviving the stench
of burning gas.
Could they see the flames
from down there?
Could they see what I see
from over here?
On this lonely patch
of deserted highway,
middle of the night,
awe-struck.
Blue light—
freak out.
I can smell the
noxious perfume
reaching across the
barren fields.
Yank the breath from
my own throat,
my own nostrils.
The hand is never quick
enough.
Pinch my nose,
cover my mouth,
but my lungs feel
tainted.
Here I stand, in the
Front Yard,
sucking it all up.
I take a deep breath,
tilt my head back,
close my eyes and
Exhale.
Sometimes the burn
is just a part
of you.
