I stand on the ridge above the fire.
It’s an angry patchwork quilt that consumes the sleeper.
A prop plane flies low overhead,
dropping a bellyful of red silt — food for indigent dreams.
I walk the riverbed, now dry and covered with leaves.
The cobbles bow their heads, the oak trees preserve the past.
Beloved! You have closed your second eyelids
with the dipper birds and moved on.
In town. A small room above the bus station.
Migrant workers sing softly next door.
Outside the asphalt is soft-skinned and runny.
Tailings of summer in Chelan.