* * *

(* * *)

I turned on the TV and saw a house blown up.

It fell open like a volume dropped;

flames victimized

its pitiful quires.

Nimble as a pine marten, ranging

over all the pages,

from the table seizing meat,

making mirrors melt.

What distant scene did they reflect?

What grief did they detect?

What kind of life was gobbled by the searing heat –

novel? poem? dictionary? ABC?

What alphabet did the story use –

ours? Knotted Arabic curlicues?

Hebrew? Roman? No way to know

when something’s going up in smoke.

30 April 1996, Eugene