They stand around, looking for the source of the smoke,
wondering how far away it is.  When the first child
ignites, they are amazed at first, 
then push through disbelief to try and extinguish
the small blue flames racing up her back.  She seems
unfazed, more upset by the frantic patting and pushing
and rolling than by the fire.  Once it’s out, another child
starts to burn, and the process is repeated though
the boy’s reaction is the same:  no fear of the fire,
discomfort and fear at the rush to put it out,
the prescribed violence of the response.  Eventually,
all the kids are burning although they continue
to swing and climb the jungle gyms 
as the smell of meat fills the air.  The parents
are nonplussed but do what they’ve been doing all along
even as the kids protest and say, “It’s no big deal! Stop!
We’re fine! You’re hurting me! Stop!”  A learned expert
proclaims it a generational miracle and says that
perhaps this is the next stage of evolution:  a species
of burning humans who don’t care if they burn.  None
of the children have an opinion.  They’re just kids, after all:
what do they know? Something, I guess,
that the rest of us don’t, with their blue flaming hair
and their blue flaming lips, singing hot songs
as they play and dance
and see the earth
changing.

In the bluest eye,
a dot of brown.

In the whitest snow,
a gray morsel.

In the darkest night,
a light shining just to be seen.

In this second,
a small eternity.

Imagine, now,
purity.  Pretend it exists.  

Pretend flight
is endless, that what flies

never lands. Pretend
you never land.

Pretend earth under you
is invisible — no down to define

up. See how far
you get. In what direction

are you flying?  How far 
have you gone?  

In the clouds,
rain, lightning, hail;

in your wings, now,
an aching for rest.