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.



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

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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