Sunday, May 13, 2007


It’s all ended in a crash.
And keeping silent, still the fast pad the halls,
Then a clipping sound buzzes near your ears,
Then a field sprouts up near your home.
Horses come and go where the rain falls in patches
And rocks leap up to take the windshields and hooves.
Then W. H. Holden caps off the last rounds,
And clay hills lined with holes are his victims now.
Then a stream pops up,
Then a stream dries out.
A basin worth nothing to those who needed it.

A wind blows toward where we stand,
We lean into it and close our eyes.
Then steam arises on the horizon.
The steam looks a smoke, t h e r e ’ s f I r e
Not a time when we needed that stream more.
But feet make flight to a patch of rain.
Then soaked, in search of a patch of sunlight.
There are no fires, there is no smoke.
Three is more than enough and just right,
Three matches and my lamp is done,
But it’s raining, there’s no way to find our footprints now.

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