The red fire god sits on the horizon
blinding us with his love
and we ignore him
squinting in the glare
while he gobbles distant trees,
takes a bite from their hill
and sinks into a wrestler's squat.
In a blink he is gone
the ruddy glow of his last breath
a final benison
as unholy thoughts stir,
scratch themselves and mutter,
then judge the sky safely transmuted
toward the indigo of indifference.