A Pleasing Fragrance

He was crowing
on the rooftop
of his sanctity

when the house burned
down. Crazy old cock
larger than death

he thought
before the conflagration.
It was a fire, though,

noise and apparatus
and he up there
coining phrases

with his tail in flames.
He would have laughed
to see himself.

Maybe he did laugh.
Maybe that was why
he crowed,

because he knew
it was preposterous
and wanted to go out

the way he lived.
And so he’s gone,
poor roasted soul.

in blazing glory.
He made, despite himself,
a good holocaust.