Robert Beveridge
The forest burns and no one
gives a damn. There were some
virgins in the trees, but they
may have gone now.
After all, what sort of virgin
likes the smell of burnt pine?
We dip our thumbs in the ashes
and smear them on our foreheads
over the scars of our shocks,
pray to Erato, look around
for what may have once been a road,
or a row of movie theatre seats
that may have been concrete blocks.
Somewhere in the distance sap
boils, tree explodes, sunlight must
glimmer off pieces of bark but we
cannot tell what direction the sound
came from. We try to orient
ourselves, follow the sun. You take
off your shirt, wrap it around your
nose and mouth, but cannot tell me
if it is virgin wool. My cane combusts.