I'm hunting through the property
For things I absolutely know
Will burn. Sticks, detritus, old piles
Of autumn leaves, and wooden spoons
All tempt me. The roadrunner spots
Me foraging in the hedges
And follows at a safe distance.
Sequoia's fostered chicken hides
Under an afghan pine to watch.
It's come to this. The year is young
And I am old. Everything dear
To me, even me, seems fuelish.