We are the Only Sane Ones by Sam Corfman
We are the only sane ones: everyone else is burning.
Because we lack rivers, we catch rain in our hands
and buckets. Bathing in it we become
like wet wood, which smokes but does not ignite,
and stave off madness. The charred ones
shun us, yet demand to know why
we would not choose purification, what we call
unendurable. Our state they call damned. Still both
persist. When we run towards our borders
we see that beyond them wells
bring up groundwater. Those on fire offer
what could save us to the sea.
One of us lights a match,
and we hold our breath. We hope we have bathed
in water and not gasoline.
Polluted by ash,
they look the same as they fall from the sky.