the way it crawled the rafters like a hungry lion.
Not ashy postcards or our map of California,
Rachel staring, White Russian in hand.
Not the melted surfboard, waterlogged books;
not the bright suspendered man saying
You should get out now, the air’s no good here,
bitter heat and reek of everything burning.
Not the glowing windows as though a woman had lit
a hundred birthday candles on a cake for her lover.
What I remember is the view from the driveway,
how I needed so little of what had just gone up,
the flaring and flickering.