the pyromaniacs of the gods were kicking it
into that desert sunset
upon a fire pink, burner-blue horizon line
blossoms cherry red
and naked solar flares drowning into hibiscus hell-flowers
dancing a wake for the dying light
above a necropolis of mulga and spinifex

fueling until darkness

when the tourists overdose on shooting stars
the lark of min-min lights
on the petals of midnight bloom
as the ghostriders take up watch

illuminated into the pitch
by the sun-bleached bones
of dry-spell roadkill