Day Seventeen: ‘Blood Orange Rain’

April 17, 2013

Not since the grandeur of the feral creek

and pleasant sludge of mountain morning have

you dared bite into a world this deep. Too few

colors in the northwest. Not much valor

in the angry clouds and the blood orange rain they hoard.

Something about rough hide you learned from the sherpa

led you to realize you hate your job and flee

like a blown-out tire whipping in the interstate wind.

Continue to chase dreams as skirt, rail

waiting to be spiked. Endure your garage mornings

in thin ties and yellowing teeth, ever mindful

of the bruises hilltop views leave. Keep waxing

nostalgic. The bison still roam out of reach

and all their gorgeous fur can line a jacket.

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