The Trees Are Burning at Midnight
What signal tars this moon-blessed night?
And where may we find relief
in these hidden sights? The lure
is not the trap. The trap is not
desire, but desire’s aim. Flick
a cigarette out the window and watch it
arc through darkness onto the tindered
ground. Consequence, action, flame.
Dropped in a box and tossed out.
Delivered to the wrong house.
Left on the kitchen table for anyone
to see. I have wanted to be elsewhere,
someone not me, on a cool hillside
overlooking the billowing sails far below.
Robert Okaji lives in Texas. The author of five chapbooks, his work has appeared or is forthcoming in The New Reader, Panoply, MockingHeart Review, ISACOUSTIC*, The High Window and elsewhere.