The bristling brown ranges
are ticking like a time bomb
underneath
the old trolley tracks
of the decaying city.

The ocean grips
the ethnic air
in the same way
the rich die in their wombs
without the certainty
of digesting the repetitions
of their prunings.

The landscape
must be done over:
once plowed,
then seeded.

Twice is the only count
that satisfies a miserly heart.
--------
The aspen, sequoia, and tamarisk trees
will shine one night
for the meek
to find their way
in the words of the dead.

Madness is in the fields
where the red cherries
spit out the whisperings
of the half-crazed wind
and burn holes in the papery air
of the barefoot women
who face the celestial hemp rows
with the swollen masks of their rhymes.

Smoke vanishes.
The August sun
buries its head
on the lap of what is mistaken
to exist.
--------