[82]

under a western sky

i didn’t want to write about this again, again.
but here comes that memory, bone-breaking,
banking, undeniable as the 8:15 engine meeting
a tunnel made of stone. all the puget’s hills are made

from ash. bones, bloods, volcanic stones. let’s sit on
this train and talk about the destruction of a mountain,
the loss of all those unknown lives, because it’s easier
that going home. Because this is our life we’ve lost,

a burning that will turn our hearts to stone. and still
the memory sits, char-edged photo sorted from rubble.
i’m walking a dog in the dark, ghosted by streetlights.
you’re stealing my soul with your camera, pocketing

it, slip-fingered, promising to take care of it. that word.
forever. the wolf moon told me it was true, but everything
wrapped in a howl seems true. i read that after the explosion,
even the spiders came back, using threads of silk to float home.

~

LINER NOTES


Image taken with iPhone on the train.
Words written on the train.
Time Taken 6 minutes.
Brain on tomorrow, day, ten years ago.


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This entry was published on March 22, 2012 at 11:34 am and is filed under March, Poems, Seattle, Self-Portraits. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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