A Public Sphere for Poetry, Politics, and Nature
Last night at dusk a log cabin rumbled past,
front porch with three rockers, gable window.
People sat and leaned, carried
on what must have been a truck-bed,
four wide steps not quite reaching ground.
Its cab, a tractor’s engine, towed
cabin and a trailing outhouse from which
raucous techno music blared. If you
could have closed your ears — it’s hard here
to close them — a century and a half
might slip away, a brighter twilight glaze
the railings. You’d be the one in motion,
passing a fixed dwelling in your wagon, waving
to ranch hands home from their dusty day
as the sun dropped behind these same blue hills.
You’d be heading toward a rumored spring
to settle the oxen, swallow a cold meal,
wrap the sleepy children in their blankets
and tell them one more time about Orion,
able hunter from a distant past, his outline
slung above you the way — now that darkness
has descended on this alkali lake bed
throbbing with disco and neon — he hangs
over us tonight, history written in stars.
Copyright 2019 Molly Fisk