I mistake wildfire for setting sun —
sum of this space, illusion. Mountains float,
inch-deep lakes, the next range
never arrives. Red ribbon
on the ridge flares, rage driven
by gravity and summer
downward. I listen for sirens —
there is only engine’s strain.
Clive is nothing. Unincorporated —
no homes, churches, bars. More barrels
than bodies, recursive cemetery
service. No one to flee,
nothing to burn but crematorium gates
and sage, cameras swivel,
indifferent — flame white
in their eyes.
Descent complete, it runs
the fuse of scrub.
I am alone in smoke —
recycled air in the car
thickening — I am close enough
to warm through the passenger door,
it tempts like a hearth
and is gone, a range away.
Shift in night, and then the sirens