All the angels of Tie Siding were on fire.
The famous sky was gone.
Presumably the mountains were still there, invisible in haze.
there was only one angel, but she was a torch in the wind, beside
the wind-ripped American flag the post office flies.
OK, she wasn't
literally on fire.
Maybe her angelic red hair made me think she was
ablaze as it flaunted the prairie and made a festival of itself.
was a fireworks stand nearby, entirely beside the point, as was the
Fourth of July.
It was really dry.
It was fire season.
It was the
wind festival, featuring an angel standing in it, letting her red hair
conflagrate history, reduce it to ash, bid it start anew, erase the sky
with atrocity's own smoke.
She wore, besides her flame of hair,
blue jeans and a singlet.
She was violent in the wind.
walking toward her.
I'm still walking toward her, no idea what to
say when I get there.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem