a starlit sky
off the well traveled trail,
and if a star falls in the woods
and burns everything to the fucking ground
does Smokey the Bear make a sound?
or is he sitting against the redwood bark,
lighting his Camel,
savoring the taste of American Industry,
American History,
while the hundred year trees
spread seedlings in the blaze?
there was a thunderstorm tonight
‘bout a minute wide,
but you have to wonder
for all the poets that’ve chimed
what the stars throw back,
if its vulgar,
in their twinkling tones?
and really, a minute is so very long
sixty seconds even,
sixty complete thoughts
about the way the cold creeps up
has its way
and never, ever stays.
a starlit sky
off the well traveled trail,
can we meet up there intemperatetouch
dressed in dreams
dragging the ones that no longer fit
and chant the ones we hold secret
by the rejuvenating firelight
of someone’s earth-crashed wish?
