IN THE PINES
I always knew the house was on fire. It was one of the first things I knew.
Shiver for me now—the road through
the park, the scum kettle pond,
the planned pine grove past Victory
Field, and the block where she
burned last night. March, a cracked
cellar door, don’t you lie to me.
Cuffed wrists. Duct tape. I am
a luckless thing. A man’s
rended heart. I burned like brush
fire in the pines. Burned
like the front porch.