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.