Mornings fell on neighborhoods turned white 
grids of ash; the odd surviving objects

like antiquities—a dish intact, a child’s toy—
became remarkable. It was a year of fires 

in wine country. Another year burning. 
The far land veined with bright, raging bands 

that worked a century of dust-
to-dust in a single night. One woman

lived by jumping in a swimming pool,
treading water while the red

and smoke-drowned night 
passed over her. Daylight 

found the house eaten 
and the fire moved on. Her shoes

half-melted on the deck
just cool enough to wedge her feet in.

She walked out into the dawn-lit
flurry of cinder. A naked Eve

in this reverse creation, 
the newly unmade world.