FUEL

What is needed? Dry brushwood. Straw.
Oil.

What is lost? The arc
Of a soul.

A country is not really occupied
Until its landscape has been adequately reduced.

Until Sherman has had his fun.

And he did. I've got the scars to prove it.

They're on the inside.

I've spent all day trying to pinpoint
The source of defilement. It has something to do
With the stars, I think. Or else the sky's tainted expanse.
Coal from an imaginary Newcastle? Or blood from the stone
We once called a human soul? Now and then a bit of Black Death
To help limit consumption. Prices drop,
And suddenly everybody's sprinkling lime.
Everybody's a mill for God's grist,
Saying, It was a good thing when the fire
Gutted my heart.

I didn't use that line. If I did, then I don't remember.

Last year my situation was grave. This year I'm obeying
Even the false alarms.

This year I'm perfecting the watchful gaze
Of a ranger isolated in his tower
Above the trees.