Write on the Fire

The ones of us, those of us,
These of us—you, me of us

Who are not on fire, not yet,
Who can still breathe and buy food,

And sleep in clean sheets, big beds,
Real beds with no guns in them,

By real glass in sills and frames,
Which have whole panes, keep out rain

And the starved eyes that might stare
Through the glass but have not yet

Smashed through, who will smash through it
One night to swap sleep for dreams—

We can talk and write and send
Lines of text, small words like these

That don’t seem to see a thing.
Oh, we see. We see and hedge

Our bets on the hunch that death
Will come get us from our bones

And not give its kin the chance
To haul us out of our homes.

These lines know the fires will burn.
Each word aims to get out, first.