They burn three-piece suits and wingtips. They burn syllabi and forms, anything they can find to eradicate the academic life, or the life of bankers and corporate demons. They burn maps and directions, no-trespassing signs. They burn all their certificates of merit, awards, any and all bad collections of poetry. As they burn, they sing, and as they sing, they become characters of songs. "Ol' Man River" falls down and out of the air and collapses by the embers, and every song ever written and played by the Grateful Dead rises up out of the dark into a black plume miles high. Together they both grow wings, one insect, the other vulture, and they ride and circle the black swirling vein of debris they have made of their burning. In the morning, bottles empty for hundreds of yards, they rise to step into the new shadows of the legends they have made of themselves.