Heat horizon

 

The paper mill and the dome, the slop house, the flag at half-mast, the chromed cab of a mint-green semi, the brick chimney of a disused factory, the gutted structure of a tenement row, the personal belongings, the early-morning announcement, the tears of a boy who’s missing home, the dark, dark tunnel going into the station, the gleaming window of a ground-floor office, the flaking underbelly of an old bridge painted yellow with green riveted ribs, a concrete balustrade, a gravelled forecourt, a padlocked cabinet, a woman with a black ponytail, her protruding belly pulls her forward and causes her to purse her lips, burnt toast and percolating coffee, a grey train, a North Face fleece that has seen better days, braided extensions coming loose in grey tufts, lights, lights flashing in the mirror, the shopfront, the rainwater gathered in a dip in the sidewalk, the oil gleaming pink and metallic pooling on its surface, the sky fading in and out of the murk, the smell of plastic melting, legs swollen into trunks,

eyes that dart and rove,

eyes that set you alight just to watch you burn

​

Columnar burn patterns don’t stick around for long.

First mention of a ceiling and they haul ass.

Cede to Vs that become plumes, and if a plume finds a door, boy, you got movement, you got a whole lotta sweeping up and over, soot shading in the top half of a papered wall with dirt and forensics
like a make-up artist on the lam