When houses burn here
you just watch.
There is nothing
but the sea
for irony.
Cinders wild as flies.
Rooster crowing day too early.
Night illumined. Moonless sky.
I worked with others
dragging furniture outdoors—
books, tables, lamps—
to save what could be saved.
Water drizzled from a skinny hose.
Buckets passed from
hand to hand to hand.
Somebody cursed in Greek.
A neighbor gave me her sweater,
asked if I was cold.
First the grape arbor came down.
And then the windows spoke.
We watched until the roof
sighed twice, then died.
Then one by one went home
to dream of fire.