Each day is different in the autoclave of air
sometimes flames curl-up the gutter in violet waves
machines cover the street, a place weighed down
with walking, asphalt tongue unrolling
black mouth that's carved from human sky
and brownstone horizon, tasting summer fires,
fires set by anxious goons for dessicated landlords.

The air sits like a stunned bird the color of grit
whose wings now suddenly blur to a new direction
blown-on with the black parch from August lakes
and dust from glass-mined city lots
guarded by firemen.

The scrubber comes by again.
"Stones don't burn'' my mother says
knitting a red cap with two longpenny nails
I hacksawed their heads off.

In the ashlot across the street
ash sifted with dust from under the corners of the city
the wreck of a torched warehouse does not stir
but when the machines have gone
I find a small circumference of blackened stones.

Each stone is different.