The sky is filling with smoke
from a neighboring country. All of the buildings
are smudged in orange. For some reason
I have started to understand the language
of this smoke. Sometimes the fog is looking
to be held just as we are; in this moment
it cradles between our lungs, our unholy
child of grief created in an absence of a storm. I, too, am
the aftermath of burning. The world
is turning a sepia hue and all of our photos will
be gorgeous. I am not equipped for another
apocalypse. Please tell me everything
is still beautiful. The moon looks like a god
dropped a peach in the sky and left it to rot. It is that
kind of beautiful. Don’t question how
much fire it took to get here, just enjoy this
sunset that now will never end.
—jason b. crawford (West Trade Review)