Max Phillips
THE BURNING GIRL
On Highland Place, where time is "killing me, "
in May, a kind flaw widens in my sight
as I study out on the braille lawn:
Out of the paddies, toward the ivy spire
she breaks, but cannot wander out of fire,
sealed in a sounding bell of light, private,
where orange cats tear at the afternoon
and I harrow the steep text for my Degree.
I see the next fire balloon to Oz
approach. This must be something in my head.
Past lecture halls I see her rot and swerve.
She tries
to
bend away the flaying wands,
to part the orchid curtain with her hands.
Flame sorts the body, wine and terrific bread
parted and held from her to be observed.
Flame holds the body in an upright vase.
When dark comes, the cars light, and within my
window, distracted headlights float in dusk
and seem to pe'er somewhere above the landscape.
Above, huge, building ... I see a cloud lean down
on yellow roofs, to fumble at her town.
Doors, windows light, open to flying shapes.
Rhododendron invades the school with musk,
fire. She cannot stray back into memory .
