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I Am My Own Route
I remember who lived here
who shared the mountains and
green pills, snow drifts during winter.
Natives who built fire now kindle
slot machines on reservation, down
loading quick heliotropes on lunar eclipse.
Stamp trails and wind up carbon
path, in a place full of cool
rain falls where no clouds overhang
and spies fill the skies.
Free of spores and fibber tire ash,
clean air nipping my lungs
resurrected from crowding trees and
acres of plodding.
Before garbage bags and trash bins.
Before division of plot with square feet
and labels were called appraisals, and lots
yielded fruits of laboring love,
Even here, beer cans french kiss
pine needles in frozen times, their
plumage on roof tops, on
bush floors, a water bottle singing
a dirge, buried under years of
fangled moss and earthy contra
band of cult therapy.
They have been hollowed out,
unearthed sites, where black ravens
blot the sky with spread wings
as they cackle down and bones
are exposed where they lie rest.
They cry up to me like canaries
of sick flacon, each and every one
of them, wanting a proper burial place,
warning, one will be taken and
the other left.