Fire Victim

Once, boarding the train to New York City,

The aisle crowded and all seats filled, I glimpsed

An open space—more pushing, stuck in place—

And then saw why: a man, face peeled away,

Sewn back in haste, skin grafts that smeared like wax

Spattered and frozen, one eye flesh-filled, smooth,

One cold eye toward the window. Cramped, shoved hard,

I, too, passed up the seat, the place, and fought on

Through to the next car, and the next, but now

I wonder why the fire that could have killed him

Spared him, burns scarred over; if a life

Is what he calls this space through which he moves,

Dark space we dared not enter, and what fire

Burns in him when he sees us move away.