Portents Pass After the Fact

An orchestra of pale boats
Emerged to float through night air,
Nero fiddling on the wind.

He never did that, you’re told,
Now that it’s too late to get
The image out of your mind.

Whoever wondered what that
Sounded like, felt like, smelled like—
Weak string music, sweaty king,

The smoke and screams of Romans?
Well, here it’s only wildfires,
And airwaves fiddle themselves,

Invisibly, silently,
And all you heard was crickets
Under clouds like refugees

Ahead of the ruby haze,
High orchestra pit of pale
Boats sailing east on fast streams.