the restless underbelly of the trees
whose incandescent evening news
seems lit tonight with LEDs,
as sunset’s television strews

with cinematic tricks
our jungle’s blowing pyre,
fireflies like random wicks
carried on the trade wind’s fire,

torches leaves with distant matches
from an incendiary moon,
until the entire island catches
and burns on the lagoon,

a rustling world of solar wind,
pinwheeled and Luciferin’d
into made-up stand-in odes
as our real-life world implodes.