From pools of shattered glass, upholstery springs
Sprout. Willow thickets burst from burnt out cars.
The smoke rain leaves flowers now above the foothills.
I should think over stupid things I've done.
Useless, the fighting. No use in denying
Couples their romance machinery, lovers
Haunting the trees, startled, the moon turned on.
So dance with me, as though through great stone rooms.
We'll have to give back that space, moving on
While night, in opening, ruptures icy chains,
Shakes drops — the twigs bead — sets small stars adrift —
(Things unintended rising to fulfillment).
We've kissed here, old Ford buried to the axles
Among the river willows, where rust bleeds
Into the stream — as recently as August
All the wells coughed sand. On Coffee Creek
The one hundred and sixty clear-cut acres
For sale very nearly tempted me
To buy into that light's simplicity,
A ruins such as gods might shout across,
Archaic stillness. The tail of the pool's
Rust dark. New waters flood the alder saplings.
As yet no salmon rises to the fly.
Obama Failed To Make Liberalism Cool
1 hour ago