as the smell of smoke
approaches in the shape
of a big white dog, her
pewter animal iris. Climb
the hill and recognize even this
close to home you carry angels
of catch and release
in your cheek, ready to spit
at the cast iron triangle
still inside its velvet pouch.
Heart full of brackish
water, curl around that
muted clang as red fractals
through their concern, igniting
tinder in the ditch
you call worship. A spade, a spade
a spade to dig a birthplace.
Culverts and canoes
carved into arteries.
Escape routes.
Game trails. Full
of listening and just enough
dirt to snuff
this spectral burn.
___________________
Photo by Joseph Steinmetz
