The pyromaniacs of the gods were kicking it into that desert sunset
Upon a fire-pink, burner-blue horizon line

Blossoms cherry red
And naked solar flares drowning into hibiscus hell-flowers
Dancing a wake for the dying light
Above a necropolis of mulga and Spinifex

Fuelling until darkness,

When the tourists overdose on shooting stars
And the lark of min-min lights
On the petals of midnight bloom,
As the ghost-riders take up watch

Illuminated into the pitch
By the sun-bleached bones
Of dry-spell roadkill . . .