Last night my wife woke me dreaming the neighborhood was on fire.
As usual, I was sleeping through every real and imagined apocalypse,
half-listening to the rain on the window. My ears
still listen for leaks, even asleep and dreaming
of the western mountains I know hold my death.

We slept in today because we could:
this unofficial start of summer.

In the afternoon she planted the garden
while I examined damages trees, tried pruning back
the honeysuckle reaching over the backporch
and onto roof. (It squeaks in the wind,
this house whines and weeps too much already. )

Early in the evening I daydream of brown water.

There is fire waiting for me. These bones are glowing embers
waiting for air to breathe like someone holding their breath
beneath an indeterminate flood.