Yellow seasons, red clouds,
drinkable dawns—
we certainly indulged.
Then an orchestra,
sprawling, treacherous, lavish,
with wilding percussion,
rainy brass, nervous strings,
chatty woodwinds.
A growing dissonance of voices
on top of the deep roar of traffic
and sirens, a scream for help,
then the crash of cymbals, bossy and jagged,
tumbling down concrete stairwells,
cut through all things fearful,
then quiet but for the breezes sighing
through the barb’ wire fences
and over the range grasses.
The road is elusive.
Always was.
Search for it where it is not.
From: Small Places, Big Places Everywhere
Unpub. MS p. 38
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