<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
<\/p>\n
The South Starts Here<\/strong><\/p>\n with houses, shacks, All I saw was orange in the air, I had timed it perfectly, Me, they called stupid, crazy, <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n
\nsalons, billboards
\npiles of tyres, an airport hangar,
\na Methodist church, a propane tank,
\nvoids, that ramshackle Whispering Pines,
\nits shuttered shadow;
\nalways something else burning,
\nforty three fires,
\nthe 44th by a piece of cloth I lit.
\nwith unsellable houses destined to crumble
\nin an emptying county
\nwith flames spurting from farm outbuildings
\n–\u00a0 burned wood into crackle.<\/p>\n
\non unmarked drives veering off
\ninto quiet dead ends
\nwhere people share last names
\neven if they don\u2019t remember
\nhow they share bloodlines.
\nNo traffic off of 13, and deep country roads.
\nYou never run out
\nof abandoned buildings there.<\/p>\n
\non Valentine\u2019s Day, an arson spree,
\nI let the hens out first,
\ntoo sensible to be caught.<\/p>\n
\nclose-cut red hair, goatee,
\nwide blue eyes, good run to bad.<\/p>\n