vultures atop
the hill circled
her chaps hanging
on the iron bars of the
windmill, to them it looked
like a cowhide waiting to be
scraped clean,

her alibi
cooled in
the stock tank
in the meadow, the
day had come when
the fire set itself, the broken
glass from the whiskey bottle
magnified in the sun, she sat naked
ass in the stock tank waiting for the glass
to get hot enough from the sun to ignite the
pile of dry crested wheat grass,

she looked through
her binoculars, she saw
a little smoke, then pretty
soon, she saw a lot of smoke,
then the fire, that was then, this
is now, the pile of skulls lie bleached
in the sun,

given to me in
the cradle, a burning
lense, guided by Fire,
intense sexual magnification
burns...it's you...

Copyright 6.10.2010 Ms. Sage Sweetwater, firebrand lesbian novelist