BURNING THE STAIRS

BURNING THE STAIRS

There is a low wail coming

Up through my skin.  When 

I listen in, head close

To the radio I can feel

The pulse, the full pulse,

The pulse, pulse of the electricity

In its circuits.  I can smell

The ozone.  I can tell

It needs flame.  Even the music,

Even the announcer’s voice,

Lifting and falling, selling stereos

And car tires has the stink

Of flame around it.  I wish

For evening, a room far away,

The arc of a great bird

Across the sky, etched air.

The wail will have none of this.

It becomes louder and shrill.

The dial begins flickering.

It’s mouth full of flame.

It begins to melt.

I quickly pick it up,

Toss it into the air.

The stairs of the angels catch fire.

The air is filled with burning stairs.

There is no way to get to heaven

Any longer.

The fire storm rages down.

It is like dreaming.

It is like moving clouds

Away with one’s hand.

I stand at the top

Of the stair and look down.

Someone is listening to a radio

So intently

I believe

They are an animal.