Where do you raise a poem?
Etch it on the surface of a pond?
Hang it in the air above a burning building?
Braid it into a web spanning freeway and radio tower?
A poem is a hunting lodge and a circus tent,
a night trauma and a nucheal ligament,
allowing the mind to race clear headed and upright
through a forest fire in a deep ravine
while the heat sears your memories
and anneals your losses
like wax on old bourbon bottles.