Our cities are quiet 

but shine loud with fresh hopes and dreams and

sweet denial.

The fire has come to claim us 

with its shimmering shadow, 

inviting itself

into our homes and into our hearts; 

it is not the same fire we were prophesied-

it is worse.

The country lands cry into our rivers 

but we do not see-

our eyes are shut too tight,

stinging from the pain 

of hands we've 

kissed goodbye.

The devil has gone fishing 

in a little boat on the lake. 

He catches no fish:

they swim too deep 

now; 

they know too much.