". . .Lieutenant!

                                                                      this corpse will not stop burning!"

                                                                                             -Galway Kinnell

We are at that hour when we rush.

Outside, shoes hiccup on ground;

mind is on everything, yet

nothing. I could kick two twigs together

and start a fire: would anyone notice?

This one line keeps unfolding

in my mind, each time opening

a new surface: the dead shall be raised

incorruptible. I don't know why,

but nothing stirs these people:

not the pigeons they step over—

feasted on by patient red ants,

nor the black husk cloud, tearing

into the distance.         This is my

regard. I walk into traffic, oncoming

both ways—the rain ceases,

for perhaps a second, I announce:

"there shall be light." I cross.

People stare, eyes like capsules

of risperdal or topamax.

Still, somewhere, something burns.

I smell the earthen flesh

succumb to heat, the trunks

of smoke stretch from tree line

to tree line. How can we die

if we can't fall asleep? This scent

is scraped across, yet this city

does nothing. These living do nothing

for the living and the dead.

A wiry man asks me:

"Do ya godda light?" I burn

in the knowledge it is too late

to put out our fires

Judson Simmons (NY)  holds an MFA from Sarah Lawrence and a B.A. from the University of Houston. His poetry has appeared in Briar Cliff Review, Concho River Review, Permafrost, and elsewhere.