Fire on the Mountain

We are those who only live at night awake because we see the fire spreading across the small brown mounds of scrub oak and sage towards the blanket of arched city brights our hands are shutters clicks and lenses sectioning off chunks of midnight heat from the different angles hanging in the august air if death happens to slip his hand through the neighborhood through the woman through the men through the children our memories are staged to capture this lust and we are not afraid to take charcoaled flesh home in our heads or to hang it on our walls like fathers sporting trophies.