A pair of brass fox faces
fashioned on an ornate pair of andirons

stare out dead-eyed from the gleaming
blackened hearth

as if pretense and unshaken
belief in cleverness could mean

the blazing stack of logs aflame
across their backs is not

a blazing stack of logs aflame
across their backs

as long as they pretend it’s not.
It burns and burns. They don’t blink.