The fragile gray slate
breaks like a sheet of northern ice
shard by shard of jagged caverns
I could place the smallest toy truck right there
and you’d see a collapsed L.A. freeway
after The Big One
(Remove the periods, and now we’re correct)
The rain collected there,
three-century rain
liquid of helpless tears
of chained blood
of mosquito-fever sweat
each drop fallen with the weight of one life…
the three-century lives
carried by us all
right here

New rooms
in the oldest house
Inside with the jazz of our own making
Inside, longing for only one sound
that of the hulking rocket ship
Three-century sound
of blinking yellowed views
hurtling and sputtering through the winter rain
all heft and sparks…
the brass of inside
wrapped up

The crows scatter and return
in the darkest soft blue of too-early dusk
After their night’s rest, their bodies reform
into three-century notes
of boy with trumpet
carried on their wings at first light…
The brass of outside
will reign today
as he floats across
and mends the shattered ground