Butane

The huge aluminum airship
is gliding over us,
you and I with our children walking by Westport’s
trees, seashore, gold trees, gold seashore.
I say, What’s that? But no one sees it.
Then the second ship crashes just behind us,
spills butane lighter fluid over the field,
thinly spreading, fast, out over the next field;
we don’t know, should we throw water over it
or not—which will be worse for the earth
(the earth itself isn’t on fire yet,
only the corn in the field, and the next field).
The dwarf says, Hold it! walking up between my legs
into my body: I’d better see the fire skin.