wildfires

i. 
secretly monday morning 
somewhere something is on fire 
 
maybe a wooden angel 
with dry venetian blind wings 
 
became tangled overnight 
in this picket fence city 

when the matchstick dawn was struck 
all through the splintered skyline

ii. 
maybe the nevermore man
the vagrant arsonist-king

with skin-graft smiles billowing 
inside his coat of ashes

clutched to his ember entrails 
a contraband inferno 
 
aerosol can and zippo 
emblazon every alley

iii. 
maybe domestic hazards
kindled this conspiracy

somewhere behind the drywall
wires spray fireworks like spores

smells like a manifesto
today is the regime change

the sirens did not receive
the propane communiqué

iv. 
with my scorched earth policy 
maybe I am those wildfires 
 
could explain my cinder wings 
the glowing seams of my coat 

my inflammable brown eyes 
filled with charred propaganda

staring up at sunset birds 
aimless as flaming arrows

© Steven Artelle