To Turn the Back

A scratch! a scratch! a sliding match

Against a turbid fertile patch

of human presence wafting past

the porcelain; A sudden flame;

tiger’s eye in the dark, tamed.

I forget what a fire is.

Huddled rebels against the pressing dark

And likely wolves creeping up from the sea edge,

Eyes like theirs, 

Our people’s people hum and beat up the fire,

Tearing strips of rabbit and squirrel from a stick in the center,

Tossing meat to the dogs;

I forgot what a fire was.

Blazing in merry reckless lust a tree

Kissed another and another and another,

Gobbling dust of the forest, tossing handfuls into the air,

Upsetting urns,

Gobbling nineteen men in oiled protective gear:

Grim shovels lit red and dropped.