Fires are unbiased—
They burn what suits their mood.

I like to do my running
In the morning, before
The mosquitoes start their work.
During the dry season, you
Would think it unsafe—
Roads crowded by vulnerable
Yellow stalks of rice, long since
Harvested—but the trash
Is burning all the same.
By the time I’ve finished my run,
I am coughing, and the mosquitoes
Are dead before leaving the water.

At night, if you are lost
And alone, the fires—
Four feet high and stretching for
The lower tips of eucalyptus—
Will light the road for you.
Do not walk near them.

Near the school
Between dying trunks of banana
Trees, three men in jeans stoke a fire—
Reduced to shades
Of their former selves, the long, burned
Banana leaves lay withered
At the white center of the fire.
Much to their amusement,
A few students have fashioned
Swords of the live banana leaves
Not yet touched by the flame
And are fighting to the death.

Not often, but certain days, (particularly
The hot ones) I
Ask myself—
What am I doing here?

We drink whiskey from the bottle
On a night off and
Stand by the river.
In the overgrowth on the other side
Far-off fires twinkle—
A reminder—things burn
Over there, too.