After A Fire

There's a fine line between poetry and hokey horseshit, right? So howabout Michael Wilson's observations about a fire in the NYT today?

* Bang: The wind makes waves of the dust and hard dirt that crest and break just like the kind in the water. The wind goes on to whip through Brooklyn, behind you, but it gets you first.

* Something else creaks from a black room. Is someone there? The north side of Noble is lined with shoebox-shaped rooms without walls on the short ends, and some of them look to have been lived in since the flames died.

* Here is a silver table knife, there a plastic foam plate, here an empty liquor bottle. But on Monday night, as the long rooms seemed to scoop the cold winds through, hurrying them along, no one was so desperate as to spend the night in one.