Cienfuegos

The white pin wheel of heat turns up the grasses' edge.
Some dried plant stalks shrivel,
then melt openly into layers of fire.
It is end - time for the community's Christmas trees.
Something akin to burnt offerings,
reluctant souls or
hedging captives kept alive
ghoulishly for some cannibal's feast;
this festival of crackling.
They have served their purpose, now.
Bound, no faggots need be applied.
Contumely, the quiet desperation darkens
the child's face.
The headlights rain down on Christmas' debris.
A hundred little fires as cigarette warnings
daub the night air.
The forest of smoke, canyon of the torch,
where black marauders poke the nostril.