Naming Rights For Fires
:: We almost lived here once,
a long time ago ::
:: Datura dripping night scent ::
:: Open-skinned visions
of bare branches & wires ::
:: Spring quince flowering
plum, cherry pear trees with the fruit bred out of them ::
:: Remember the gray cold green
of western waves ::
:: Palms snapped from the top ::
:: We built a shelter of our skin; there was nothing to prevent us from burning ::
::What went up in the blaze
nests lined with willow cotton, deer hair vole fur
feathers & fine grass ::
After the Funeral
“But I am done with apple-picking now.”
My car heads north overfull
with histories and ghosts.
I start to dream of what I can’t.
(You don’t know you smell like cigarettes,
until you leave the place of cigarettes.)
But I am done with phantoms now.
the tindered valley, crops,
industry of agriculture overwhelmingly
lined up. Remarkably elegant.
The insults I unloaded
lost their ache in the glare
of sun through glass.
But I am overtired
from the conflict I desired.
She gave me a ring. I picked out the gems
like silver from teeth.
Remade and hid them, sold the gold.
I told her orange was the color of madness
whenever she wore orange.
ammonia stench of stockyard,
landscape screechingly the same.
Follow the magnetic north,
In the southern mountains, ocotillos
hold their liquid memory.