The Way of the West

Are (wild) fires wars? Massacres? Surely

all the trees gather and decide. Shiver.

Look to their left and right. Wave. Whistle. Wind. 

We wish to burn, verisimilitude. “Freedom” forests would yell. 

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Eyes. Fires on mountains and mountains in fires

are ranges sprawled across coals. Ebbs and flows. Eyes.

Palms. Skin and bark catching each other. Marks

along loved ridges. Fingers and toes. Palms.

Ceasefires only exist on Christmas. Until they don’t. 

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Laylat al-Qadar won’t see 

darkness or silence.

Disgust for the flighted rots behind, between us.

Theater masks placed over coud massacres,

pared from the unburnt wood. Faces. Faces. 

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Call it mass-suicide. All the trees will burn. 

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Paro only burns fires from winter to May,

makes it harder for the trees to pass the power.

There is no manfire here. Just watchers of the bugs.