Poking fire

With a long stick shaped like a T, 
He poked at the fire.
Pushing ash and debris

Aside. We stood by the furnace, 
Watching the red 
Cloud consuming all.

Cinders of black maculation—
Almost aphid, a sudden rush.
A thousand came and

A thousand gone, 
Swallowing whole. 
Before the rain started to pour,

Another file of people came 
With their palms joined
And bags of offerings ready to burn. 

They waited. We set off, 
Not allowed to defer. Made trodden. 
Not allowed to turn.

Dale Chou
2012-07-31