all fires are meditative, even forest fires
watching the burners I remember the year
the mountain burned, an Easten Kentucky town
flooded and the world did not end then, either
it’s all water now and fire:
the elements have finally taken me
governed by thermodynamics and pressure
I watch the wind and river traffic
in my dreams I feel the rocking of waves
the whole of this land ship not yet asunder
Tag Archives: fire
Autumn 2023, no. 16
This leaving season hasn’t quit me
but there are no messages from the heron.
A passenger visits the boiler, asks about the fishing.
My answer: trust nothing that swims out of the fire,
there is not enough brine to baptize it.
Another asks for a memento. I tell him
fire trolls are notoriously stingy with their magic.
Learning to spin tales of coal and dead water,
I lean on stories told me as a child
by creatures cut out of shadows in my room at night.
A deckhand asks about my tattoo
and I hesitate to talk about gatormen.
They have been swimming towards me
trying to collect me for decades,
since my bed served as a rescue boat
on nights I dreamed I had gills.
Autumn 2023, no. 9
is Fall kissing the tops of trees
round MacAlpine Lock and Dam
or is it just the arthritic leaves
of another denouement?
our faith here is fire and water
we wade through baptized by this oily season