One, the mid year fire
outside: the trees dissolving, returning
to their first red components
on all sides, cutting me off
from getaway or the sparing
lakeI sat in the house, raised up
between that ill defined seething
what's more, my dozing kids
an appeal: focus on
structure, geometry, the human
design of the house, square
shut entryways, demonstrated roofbeams,
the rationale of windows(the kids couldn't be aroused:
in their quiet imagining
the trees were straight and still
had branches and were green)The other, the winter
fire inside: the defensive rooftop
shrinking overhead, the rafters
radiant, every one of those corners
what's more, straight lines blazing, the cautiously
made structure
prisoning us in a pen of blasting
barsthe youngsters
were wakeful and crying;
I wrapped them, conveyed them
outside into the snow.
At that point I attempted to protect
what was left
of their seared dream
about the house: covers,
comfortable garments, the scorched furnishings
of security cast away with them
in a white chaosTwo fires in-
shaped me,(each shelter comes up short
us; every risk
turns into a haven)left roasted imprints
presently around which I
attempt to develop
