Glimpse

– Wait for this cross to fall.
The last few miniature beams of wood
that were our dwelling: now jammed and stood
athwart themselves; no longer tall
but crunched, the black incinerator’s food.
So fire-chewed, drowned in fire-stream, our Earth dies.

I stood beside a petty garden fire
and saw what would be deeper, vaster, higher.
I went inside. The smoke had hurt my eyes.