echoes like a burrowed owl,
while the crickets compose love songs
to the coyote's wounded growl.
The heralding stars shower down wishes
to spark the luminous coals,
which glow with a kind of sincerity
I wish the world would know.
Dew falls thicker than rain,
chasing from backs of eyes to brain,
and dripping down to anchor my feet.
The morning songbirds have been overturned
by the affair between motors and boys;
the bark on the trees is splintering
to ribbons from the endless noise.
Each path escapes back to our tent:
the wilderness map has no key.
The bloodless family sits rooted to wood,
sharing news-bits emotionlessly.
How could nature's grace
go to such a waste;
to passion may the North sometime meet!
The fruitless bugs rise tonight
to impale us with their blood-lust greed;
our resilient skin shines bronze so that we
may go wherever the river leads.
Twin fluorescent towers hum
and keep faithful watch over me,
thundering out the deer lodge ghosts
and mermaids from the cerebral sea.
Our blotched skin has been torn,
all our rain-covers worn,
and yet we still do not falter.
The words to add color to now
seem mined from lungs oiled and sprayed;
or otherwise dug up from muddy shores,
found in shells and weeds decayed.
Either way, the hour is lengthening
faster than the rise of the river tide,
and I am a shade within my summer shade:
the sun would raisin from the sun inside.
O, vacation, pulling lives
down from the skies
ever since the birth of water!
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