A fire compels us to see the fire,
the blaze itself in-itself and its roar for-itself,
and later when we see saffron or red
we retch in its smoky bane;
in our heads, the image examines the image –
the beast aflame traversing the terrains,
wilderness blanking out, our farm, chalets,
and the body of the beast being an emblem of its flesh
whose nothing but what escape it makes is left;
the escape is nothing but a drowning in the rage.
What else do you desire, fire?
An exposé of who leaves whom saving his own hind?