The Great Chicago Fire burnt about four square miles, you said
and turned your head to the dead factories.
A cow tipped over a lantern.
I laughed and we stepped on the boat.
They took pictures
but they couldn’t photograph the heat.
I am the bubble of destruction.
They call me fairy but I am a terrorist.
Your blood’s still under my nails.
I built the city anew.
They marked on the map what was still standing.
The lust of the inferior under the belly of the mirror
hiding under the stacks of lost words at the corner of North West.
The wind still talking of the fields
recovering the sweat from last night.
Benjamin’s aura has turned my brain into dust.
And in the warped glass a grimace staring back at
something that might have been me.
