Fire Drill

Bells sound them from sleep, and their imaginations
rise, recite all they have been told: the curtains

of fire, the beds, nightgowns, their hair, their hair.
They've practiced this escape before

and know to close the windows last, descend
the darkened flights of stairs in practiced wordlessness

to line up, barefoot, on the dew-wet lawn,
face the building, pretend to watch it burn.

by Claudia Emerson

Other poems of EMERSON (45)

Comments (1)

To line up, barefoot, on the dew-wet lawn the amazing mind should perceive the darkened flights of stare. An excellent poem is shared here.