The Arsonist

The Arsonist.

After Larkin.

If I were asked
to build a religion
I would make use of fire.

The flashover is the moment
of consecration.
The roar of the backdraft
the very voice of God.

The Holy Ghost in the silent
invisible flame of Hydrogen
burning in air.
Water, the antichrist.
Baptism in a dousing
of aviation fuel.

Lord what miracles could be conjured
at 760 degrees,
what a heaven we could build in hell.

I pass the nightlights of the station
on my arc, the shoes and overalls
of the firefighters lining the floor
where they hurriedly left them,
the engines gone in flight.
They will not
come back to wear them,
not this time.

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