JANUARY 8, 2007


Black smoke courses along the blank hills,
There is a crack that runs the length of it.

Shouts in the far-off dusk; the radiator bashes and clinks.
First night heat, late September. Soon all the leaves

Will collapse their canopies, like umbrellas.
Then the summer of fire will no longer burn

My lungs or clot my eyes, those plumes
Stretching from the west

Like vents from some volcano.
Upstairs, the kids sleep, white noise in

The shape of a running fan, night light burning
Their room gold from within,

Glistening cocoon. Ten o’clock.
I tip-toe in, listen to their sleep,

Gaze at their shadow features.
It is like drinking cold water from a well.


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