Tuesday, April 19, 2011


Summer does not open
its arms here
so much as strike us
across the face.

The trees are ready
torches in the dry heat
of these mountains.
With shooting star
unpredictability, lightening
explodes them like
cheap fireworks.
Snakes its inspiration
around mountain peaks,
sparking, spurring
on the flash mob
infernos that descend
into the valley


The tall grasses are almost
as bad; lying
in wait
for any excuse to
the houses squatting around the
mountain’s base like children
shooting marbles.

Why lightening?
Why does fire come a mob
against our village?
We are new in this valley.

There is no Frankenstein


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