when you think
the moon is gone forever
just when they tell you
the war is over
just when the fire appears to be dying

a spark ignites the bark
banked in the stove’s corner
the camera focuses
on the dead black boy
brandishing a plastic gun
the first sliver of ivory whitens
the unfixed sky

And you watch as the flames
consume the split oak
crackling
blazing
till you can’t sit
in the room any longer
till those with you
begin to burn