Red Hot Candy Mountain

Portland is desert
hot this week,
making the rubber radials
weaken and dance
like woozy cannibals.
My bedroom window
throws prison tattoo
shadows. Men wear
shirts of blue clay
and women carry
hand bags of creosote.
The street candy
from the Rose parade
is smeared on the asphalt
like bad lipstick
on the face of a dead mayor.
In No Po they are bringing
the chickens indoors.
In Idahna, they
are hosing down
the horses and hoping
the forest fire will only
burn to the river.

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