ON THE TELEVISED ARRIVAL OF FIRE

Jenny Gropp Hess

gasoline is the color
of nothing;
it is also the color

of a prescription digesting,
of paying bills

and of déjà vu, which is available
to anyone

who puts the river in a pan
and coaxes it back

and forth, lets
the organs
of constellations
pool in the bends

like polish,
air

wadding up
into flames,
thoughtless origami

eating fuel,
slow pixels
break images

and butter-cold metal
becomes a body,

artillery slams
into the ground,
reveals how
the sky speaks to the map:

a burning city
sees no rage
in the court order,
that yellow, lamplit
rose.

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This comes from a series of pieces about the virtualization of elements; essentially, I'm exploring the (after)life of elements in the extra-ontological world.