Does it matter whose searchlights
lifted off the ridge to pin us down?
Bulldogs lent their gruff legs
under beaming magnolias.
Now you ask how we lost
our favorite clown point-blank
just passing through sidelines in the sand
of slogans set in motion.
It feels like it feels
to swivel at twenty paces
only to find yourself surrounded
ear to ear with the wind.
It creeped us, the way sunrise fondles foothills
as the fog burns off.
I know we vowed never to open that box again
and never close it.
The idea stands on relays,
what swings the axe,
which particles blink in the fiber
of ether grinding to an act.
I mean mobs still assemble
but ghosts of what burned out
kid-gloves and valley talk
flicking fingers in order, silence broken
in peanut galleries a sense of an ending rose
with the moon, tipping the back-story
held sway, doing its thing, those daffodils
were really poppies crossing the fertile bank
where everyone spread out, taking cover
to look for the ninth planet
crawling on elbows, then tumbling on board,
knees to chests, squeezing in
for the long haul, hoping
to reach the pass with us
of all people, before a second snow.
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