we rake them into pyramid pyres, br our satisfaction glowing like the flame br with which we light them. br br we watch them smolder and consume, br and flirt with summer's memory, br whose ghost arises from the charred remains. br br but on the leaf-cleared ground next day, br we stand unsure of our suburban ritual, br our sense of order questioned br br by the pungent smell of conscience br lingering in the air br long after the cremation br br we now illogically regret and mourn.